“Behold,” thought she, “the wokest bro

Whose bearded neck enthralls me so

Whose lacquered pout and arched brow

Reveal the sensitivest soul!

“Alas, he will not see me, though.

Vape clouds his eyes and throngs of bro

Do keep his thoughts on bro-ish woes

What can I say to snag his troth?

“I know…

“I’ll gift a slice of female-ry

For what is it of use to me?

I did not fight nor forge this key

To a gate so old and in the weeds.

“Then swear an oath ‘gainst those of us

So quaintly called the ‘feminusts’

Who guard the edges of our trusts

As though it’s more than meaningluss.

“I’ll swear you, bro, are he most fair

Most wise, most just, most debonair

Most shining in your doe-eyed stare

And ere await your praise and care.”

And so she took the sharpest knife

And shaved a bit off from her life

And sent it sailing on the wind

To find the bro, and charm him in.

But bro was busy bro-ing things

Notching his belt, and reveling

In all the praise that seemed to swirl

Confetti-esque: these gifts from girls.

And though he liked the gaudy things,

They never seemed to fit, nor ring

Quite true enough to stop his ears,

Nor shroud the person in the mirror.

So shaved was she after a year

That she had all but disappeared.

Confused, she shaved her one last bit

And watched it sail toward him, flit

Through churning swells of likewise praise

And obscure words, now meaning-laise.

The bit, before it drowned in space,

Sent out a final esse-oh-esse,

The truth she finally had to face:

As she got small, he took her place.