Men are incorrigible. Like angels.
Insipid, souring, sullying little fairies
Women, on the other hand
(if it isn’t cut off),
Have a good many days of propriety
And over-the-top, Gatsby heels;
They splurge in moderation
And indulge daintily as though
Making the word from scratch.
But irony of all ironies,
Men crash and burn, wings to the sun;
A thousand Icharuses vying for love
Of some odd-flavored, inebriated sort.
They call all the muscle to stir
A small mountain, forgetting the purpose;
Why mountains were there to begin with.
And when they have crashed a short range
Or two, and when the stiletoed heels
Come clapping on hardwoods to hear
The success, they whimper and fall to the
Floor. Buried with mountains, two birds with
One stone, two eulogies once, they end with
The end affected for women.
But women, being vindictive in nature,
And short on their tempers (because,
As we know, there is nothing they eat),
Smile at the efforts, the shatters and tumbles,
The cracks and the fall; they smile for a
second and see the great beast of stone
On the ground. But before they congratulate,
Proud to the 9s, they ask what the point was
In crushing a God-made majesty, quiet and bold?
But at this point in dust, drinking the dirt,
Men find their energies wasted. What more
For a dozen dirty dainties who clack when
They walk? There is copious care in the
Lifting of mountains, in trying for years
To impress. But at gravestone and headboard,
Post-coital, post-mortem, what will a dozen
Tired, elephant men quickly confess?
Up and away, they’ll wish themselves gone,
Before the demand for impressing is trumped
With more God-like requests and a smile
Undoing the logic of being as simply as