Shall I sing you the song of woman?
Shall I notate the anatomy that is divine?
Shall I lengthen this verse or shorten,
Of the marvel that is Eve?
Shall I as well cry and sink in despair
Of impact and influence have they left in my being?
Shall I lay my forehead on the palm of my hand,
and lay my liquor in the palm of the other?

God made no mistake, men are imperfect.
Woman, complete me for I am incomplete.
God has made my being a flawed design,
And has made you trace the broken lines.