Not Based On A True Story At All…

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?

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