Comment-allez vous? Parlez vous Francais?
Every pearly word that the pretty girl says
in schoolgirl French, laboriously learnt;
yet an amateur's attempt at foreign speech!
And I, with bastard, self-learnt tongue,
ranting, raving, showing off phrases
and words I do not yet fully understand.
Nevertheless upon her each word I hang!
And so does she,
with my fluent chatter,
or is she?
What would not a young man do,
to impress a girl, and woo her too,
showing off subconsciously,
(chest expanded spaciously)
driven, of course
by that old instinct in our genes,
to make an end, whatever the means.
My metre fails me, I try again,
and finally exhausted let it go.
Later in the day, or night as may be
when her testosterone-stirring presence
has vanished, and reality
comes back in full force;
was she? Wasn't she?
Did my incoherent sputtering,
and French-sounding verbiage
(But it was the genuine thing)
have any effect on her
seemingly wonder-stricken face?
O testosterone, you old trickster,
maker of love, and of war,
singer of of a thousand songs -
harmonious, discordant -
that ring in our ears;
you villain (or hero),
breaker of hearts, and limbs too,
Spring is your season.
Who can beat you -
dopamine, that numbs the brain,
or estrogen, or adrenaline?
Nah, your game is different.
The genes that made you;
it is your sacred duty
to ensure they continue
their symphony forever.
You come out to play now
in the deer's frolic
and in man's folly -
the winter's cold forgotten -
raising in chests the first pangs
of amourous indulgence,
that makes men into fools,
reducing all reason
to the lowest common denominator.
O selfish genes, should I fight you,
and break your infinite cycle
or should I, as every of your creation does,