Man Kind

I wish that I could write of men
But I’m disenchanted with our case
A sorry tale of disgrace
Built up behind a brutish face

So stubborn in our discontent,
Poeticism never meant,
Except for something to repent
Deemed foolish by some lost event

The lyric is a potent thing
But only if you let it ring
So conflictive with everything
With male hands I’ve seen it wringed

Yet in this sight, I do not cry –
We live, we think, we love, we die
While all the men I know don’t try
To grasp their heart, and wonder why

So in women I can see a place
Exotic, in its tranquil face
Where human beauty is embraced
With joyous passions not defaced



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