You paid no attention to me as a child
‘cause I was innocent, meek and mild.

When I became a wild, wild teen, you paid
me no mind — even though I was really keen.

My twenties came and I began to see —
you just might never listen to me.

So my thirties came and I spoke up —
but you told me then I might as well shut up.

The refined forties rolled on in — I knew
right then you’d never listen again.

But fearless fifties helped me reform —
‘n I began to write our herstory.

Now here I am in the sixties again —
and still you refuse to let us all in.

The seventies ought to make it real clear —
how you strive to diminish all we hold dear.

Defining eighties may just show who you are —
and we’ll keep your ashes in a lovely jar.

So when the nineties finally roll along —
we’ll still be here together to sing our song:

We are who we are – we are born alive —
yes, we are who we are – women born alive!

Dozens of centuries may come and go — but
we’ll still be here and know what we know.

For we are who we are — women born alive.
Yes, we are who we are — women born alive!
. . . . .
© Susan Powers Bourne