The perfect man is of three legs,
all of similar extents.
Two to pursue his pecuniary exploits,
the other to steady his shaky ego
whenever it is fluttered, by the slight breeze
of a woman’s disinterest;
or when it trips over itself.
‘Tis this that fills all voids
the man believes he lords.

The perfect man is of three eyes-
two to perceive all things ethical,
the third for the less moral.
It satisfies his voyeuristic desires-
staring at a curvaceous chest
as the other two engage the face,
gives some bottoms a deserved eye escort
but not losing site of the pavement.

The perfect man is of three arms:
two to hold atop the dinner table,
to gesticulate in engaging chatter,
as the other messes with skirts and zippers
under the cover of table clothes
evidence of base primal instincts
checked only by our fears.

The perfect man is no hypocrite
He has no pretense of interest
All his interest is genuine
As he can keep track of all
Happening in his vicinity
Simultaneously seeing left and right

But the perfect man is of no conscience
He knows not the agony
Of self-inflicted reproach
He knows not good nor bad
Rather sweet and bitter
Always taking the sweet
Whether it kills or cures.

The perfect man is of revered status:
what each man would want to be,
but all are afraid to become.


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