It is these men, I tell you, in these not-so-congruent times,
The god-awful antipathies that hide within the nuclei of the world.
How can I sleep, and how can I eat, when they run so rampant,
Ruining it all for everyone? They chase basilisks, those delightful
Serpents and worms that exist like them in debauchery. Must it be
The usual to hide ourselves often from what should be considered
Normalcy? Ghastly stigmata of the spring flowers we ornament
Our paneled houses with, they sell common repugnance like
Salespeople in the otherwise dirty air. Of the seasonal variety,
They are, and yet they bloom year-round. Why, yes, they are that
Invasive, ruining the children of Earth with every innocent sniff,
Killing the women with every narcissistic enchantment. I hate them.
I hate their touch, foul as the glazed frost on blades of grass.
Soiling the uncontested virginal existences, body and mind, they are the men, the men.
