The Incel Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like an equal redistribution of sexual resources.

Let us go, through certain half-considered tweets

and form tedious arguments

about entitlement.

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Maya Angelou.

The sex robot that rubs its boobs against my cargo pants,

The sex robot that rubs its latex mouth against my cargo pants,

Licked its tongue into corners and pleats

From which human females retreat,

Powered down, and went to sleep.

There will be time, there will be time

For gaming and pickup artistry,

Time to murder and masturbate.

There will be time for betas and rejects

Who view femoids as mere objects.

(They will say: “Why don’t you treat women with respect

Or get a personality?”)

Do I dare

Disturb the manoverse?

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Maya Angelou.

For I have known them all already, known them all—

The Stacys with lying makeup on the face,

Inflating their value in the sexual marketplace.

I have known the loveshys and milquetoasts.

I have measured out my life in Reddit posts.

Shall I, after Red Bull and burritos,

Have the nerve to channel my libido?

Though I’ve compared sex to economy,

The feminazis argued for autonomy,

And, in short, I was afraid.

I am a cuck, I am a cuck.

I shall never get the chance to fuck.

Shall I try negging? Do I dare to read a book?

I shall advocate rape and cultivate a juggalo look.

I have heard the females, talking reasonably.

I do not think that they will talk to me.

I have seen them writing on the web,

Correcting our misinformation,

Denying our right to propagation,

Reporting us for terms of service violation.

But we’ll keep shitposting and making love to silicone

Until our Fleshlights wear out, and we’re alone.