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Women bore me. Tenderly they say "Make me beautiful" And then lament If I let a wrinkle stay. They can't see that lines are lovely, That life, not youth, is gay, Or they'd abjure the struggle For the adolescent surface Of unworked clay. Women bore me by too little knowledge Every day. . . Always they are thinking Men are keen to legalize a look Or coax them to loiter on the way. Why can't they sometimes take for granted We may wish to look away.