Sure they do.
But here’s an idea
you little bitch-of-a-man,
and I mean that in a tender,
warm and giving way,
all pink hearts and white roses
stop self-proclaiming your
which is a poor excuse
for an adjective anyway, bankrupt
in a still-lives-with-mom sort of way
and colorless in the look-at-my-muscles
no look-at-my-brain exchange,
the lesser cousin
of plain pleasant and truly accommodating.
He says, “But I am—”
before I’m able to raise my hand
oh please, for god’s sake,
just stop talking.