I think I’ll take a powder if I hear just one more sigh
I think I’ll grab a bucket if that wimp begins to cry
I’d like to take a catapult and launch them way up high
The moaning, sighing, groaning, crying lovers
I pity those Jane Austen types afflicted with gentility
They sound so prim and proper and their phrases ooze fragility
The state they seem to crave the most is meek respectability
The prudish, stuffy, broodish, huffy lovers
I frown when I encounter works weighed down with grave turgidity
Despising real emotion and upholding cold frigidity
If nothing else, they score a point for causing souls’ morbidity
The automatic, regulated, systematic, non-hydrated lovers
I wince when someone rants and raves and spouts offensive bile
And thinks that cursing partners equals literary style
I wish someone would bury them beneath a steaming pile
of spiteful, vicious, vile, malicious lovers
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