I gift Myself on a silver platter,
Tied up in a fancy bow;
I promise to love you with
My Parts Above
And show you with
My Parts Below.
But if and once the flirting
And playful un-skirting stops,
And what remains is a
Self-elevated mound of slop
Whose touch now feels
Like a Dirty Mop,
I’m grateful to the point of pain
I’m a High-Giver, High-Risker,
High-Lover, and Mutual-Taker,
Not a Low-Giver, Low-Risker,
Scarce Lover, and High-Taker.
The latter soup is a selfishly bitter, tasteless combination
Which only causes full-body vexation,
But NEVER a case of the shivers.
So Here’s the truth I’d swear is true:
Girls DO like spice,
Or you’ll soon find you’ve lost
Your chance to dance
With your own
Quakes and Quivers.

P.S. I’m sincerely sorry to resort to binary terms, but I grew up in a binary world and it’s what I know. So please forgive my pronouns, he-nouns. she-nouns, and they-nouns.

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