Here I am and in my prime,
No need for fear, no lack of time,
My IQ’s high, my flaws are few,
But there’s one foe I’ve yet to slew.
Somehow I feel my knees go weak
If, to a stranger, I must speak.
I can solve equations in my head
But not control the sense of dread
That spreads from pate to waist to toes
When I must speak to Jane or Rose.
I know Shakespeare, Austen, Keats,
But not wherefore my heart so beats.
Perhaps I’ve read too many tomes
To mix with non-y-chromosomes?
