Maybe it is, maybe it ain’t

Dark eyes snapping, the angry one says: “Men are such churls,
They only write poems to waylay melancholy girls!”

I think it over: “I don’t know, sometimes I feel
The emotions they describe are actually real.
But, I guess it’s true, much of what you read
Comes down to that basic lizard-brain need:
To land, to plough and to plant their seed.”

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