I will give you a one red rose,
     as long as from the ground
     up to your beloved spot of mine.
I will never give you flowers.
That is a man's thing to do.
Not in this house one mess with
          the customs - they're
               divinely designed.
                               "Boo, hoo."


                                         I said once.
                    May remind you twice.
                        Fourth'll be the time
                               you meet my ice.

                                "Boo, hoo."

Don't care of your style,
     aspirations, dreams,
     or that you don't drink wine.
Don't care of your stupid face,
     passionate embrace or
     rythmic dance between my thighs.
Don't care of your love.
I was told by God once
     that love we do know is a men's sin.
Truly godly one the one is which
     remains in the distance.
"And, the red rose?" - you may ask.
That's the one reserved for the occasion
            when you'll be at threshold of our
                                                     destination.

The boys like you
are to be loved
from the distance.

The hunters lurking
for its prey.

The gods awaiting
a sacrifice to be made.

We are here
to give you
willingly:

Each fetus
not destined
to survive.

Each germ
not destined
to sprout.

Each attempt
of love
not destined
to evolve.

We are here
to learn
to discern.

We are here
to sift you
from
the real Men.