You have hair.
You have eyes,
Two, I hope
You may have hair, beneath your chin
Or locks that run
Like the rays of the sun.
However, my friends
None of us will now, of course
What a Man truly is

A man cannot be defined.
They bear chromosome Y,
Yet why do some think otherwise?
Why does one man prefer his comrade,
Whilst his brother seek a maiden?
When a woman, born to bosom,
Hair of length and artistry
Keeps a Y in all the cells
No thanks to her paternity?

A boy, scarce beyond age six,
Scavenges for playmates.
He sits and plays with him, or her.
Yet steals his eyes toward him
And can’t help but hold his hand
Childish, in sweet embrace
Little fingers, you’d think not know
What love can be
Love’s purity.

Men today are told “don’t play”
Do not divulge emotion
Be strong for us, the Feeble Ones
Who mock you with devotion.
It’s sad to see them never cry
Never can one tell
Sometimes the pain, of being a Man
Is a burden fit to quell.
Yet they know not how.

So when I think of men
Despite the social whip
I think of creatures tucked away
And waiting for a sip
Of all the pleasures, of the Feeble Ones
Who bask in life’s sweet songs
Who dance with the boys, and dance with the girls
Who smile and cry
And kiss without fear.

Because you see, my friends
We, the Feeble Ones
Truly have no fear
We do not fear the strike
Of thick hands against our faces.
We’ll hold hands with the boys
And dance like the girls.
We will always cherish this real freedom
Because we Feeble Ones
We know what real Men are.