Tis the glad jest of joking men's matter
  to serve up the hearts of fools on a platter
Would that they learned you can't win at love
  and spared for themselves the glassblower's glove
He swells up their hearts, transparent and shiny
  the shards sold to women for two bits and ninety
And they laugh and poke fun at the lives they control
  locked up forever with no chance for parole
Only the bachelor, by name and by trade
  shall find himself never in this way betrayed
If love is disease, and women the carrier
  be good to yourself and try not to marry her
Now is the time for good men to fight
  against all the ladies who bed us at night
Take or leave it, fair maid, that's what we say,
  Else be a good girl and be on your way.


---jrw 11:25pm


*[This poem has been edited so as to be much
less offensive than originally written.]