She says them in schoolgirl French,
And not particularly shyly either.
I, in bastard, self-learnt tongue,
Must rant, rave, show off
Phrases and words half-learnt.
Was she impressed by that fluent chatter?
Or was it I wooing unwittingly,
Chest expanded subconsciously?
It's that instinct in our genes,
Isn't it, that old kameena,
To make a pass at whoever passes by?
Later in the wisdom of night
Her testosterone-stirring presence
Has vanished doubts regain territory.
Was she? Wasn't she?
It all comes down to testosterone,
That old trickster, doesn't it?
To render men into fools,
Is its sacred, evolutionary duty
And perpetuate the genes that make them.
Talk of languages, one artificially
honeyed, for the sake of that other
eternal nucleotide double helix.