i who have known all men

They have rough hands unskilled in love,

And could not make a thing out of wood.

They furrow their brows at the thought of 

Doing anyone any small bit of good.

And, of course, human are they, still,

So, they cry and moan even if without sound.

But they come out of it entitled,

To every woman's womb, ears, and somehow

Suppose that their pain is bigger than the woman's plights

like they fight demons only known to men.

Well, Harpman, shall we tell them,

We were only 8 when we befriended them.

So marvelous do they paint their spirit

And special do they feel for reading works of complicated men;

Men who knew no better, far less,

Than the women who fed and raised them.

A look at their soul, so empty and bland;

So lustful for their lost mothers' affection,

And vain do they continue to be,

For they are very well appeased by a lass' feigned attention.

Not knowing she would rather be left in solitude

To write and read,

To be cared for by buzzing bees and then be stung,

Dying with them before the men come and steal.