(With apologies to Joyce Kilmer)
I think I shall never see
A she as foolish as a he.
A he whose hungry mouth is pressed
Against whatever he likes best.
A he who looks at girls all day,
Spends his time in foolish play.
A he that may in summer wear
A nest of freckles and not care.
Upon whose breast tattoos have lain
Who ultimately shuns work for gain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can create a He.
(c)Gwen Beauregard - 1957
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