Testosterone guards the water lily,
Ready to confront even the poet
Whose own weapons were waved
To win the blossom.
The Neanderthal can keep the lily
And its roots into the abyss.
The gliding green algae is for me.
A suspended spray shining its own style
Neither bourgeoisie nor proletariat,
Uncountable, blanketing and iridescent.
A motherly hue, enshrouding that from which the lily grew,
But who is that poking his head out of the silt and slim?
A scaly, hermited Hector, haughtily challenging any Wordsworthian Achilles
With designs of panky prose of his pale pitchy hell.
I will have my remembrance,
So I line him to my chariot
And drag him around the reedy
Walls of Troy
Until the water lily weeps for his release.