An interjection.

The Female of the Species

When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail,
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When Nag, the wayside cobra, hears the careless foot of man,
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can,
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail -
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws -
'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale -
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,
For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away;
But when hunter meets with husband, each confirms the others tale -
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man, a bear in most relations, worm and savage otherwise,
Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise;
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact
To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,
To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his anger; Doubt and Pity oft perplex
Him in dealing with an issue - to the scandal of the Sex!

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame
Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same,
And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,
The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity - must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions - not in these her honor dwells -
She, the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else!

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great
As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate;
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim
Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

She is wedded to convictions - in default of grosser ties;
Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him, who denies!
He will meet no cool discussion, but the instant, white-hot wild
Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

Unprovoked and awful charges - even so the she-bear fights;
Speech that drips, corrodes and poisons - even so the cobra bites;
Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw,
And the victim writhes with anguish - like the Jesuit with the squaw!

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer
With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of abstract justice - which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him
Must command but may not govern; shall enthrall but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him and Her instincts never fail,
That the female of Her species is more deadly than the male!

~Rudyard Kipling


Breathe. The fire is bright, the company excellent and the wine flowing. Have a terrific day Bulls. 🙂

You're ascarin' me, VB!

I doubt that. 🙂 C'mon..it's because I'm not wearing makeup in my pic..isn't it. 😛

IF

IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son

Now RNAP is ascarin' me!!!!!

LOL Hmph.

Lessee, about that wenchmobile you two were going on about....


I am certain you will need a "Designated Driver," won't you?


I can see it now, VB with her "utility belt" with a manacle here, a lash there, and of course RNAP with her patented "head butt." My, oh my................

LOL You forgot the black leather and riding crop. And hey! Thanks for reminding me..off to the Aries board with me.

Posted by dofacc
You're ascarin' me, VB!

Scared of a little bit of Kipling? Nah

Your lucky it's not one of my Cancer Moon days - I could have inflicted Il Pensoroso upon you!

I have to admit Il Pensoroso is a new one on me, but man:

Hence vain deluding Joys,
The brood of folly without father bred,
How little you bested,
Or fill the fixed mind with all your toyes;
Dwell in som idle brain
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,
As thick and numberless
As the gay motes that people the Sun Beams,
Or likest hovering dreams
The fickle Pensioners of Morpheus train. (lines 1-10)


As for the riding crop, well Someone will have to keep me inline, won't they, VB.

Alone

Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don't believe I'm wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

There are some millionaires
With money they can't use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They've got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Now if you listen closely
I'll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
'Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.

Maya Angelou

Sonnet VIII

IN that proud port, which her so goodly graceth,
whiles her fair face she rears up to the sky:
and to the ground her eye lids low embaseth,
most goodly temperature ye may descry,
Mild humbless mixt with awfull majesty,
for looking on the earth whence she was borne:
her mind remembreth her mortality,
what so is fairest shall to earth return.
But that same lofty countenance seems to scorn
base thing, and think how she to heaven may climb:
treading down earth as loathsome and forlorn,
that hinders heavenly thoughts with drossy slime.
Yet lowly still vouchsafe to look on me,
such lowliness shall make you lofty be.

Edmund Spenser

I really liked that Maya Angelou offering. Very nice, indeed.

I heart poetry. 🙂 It's a lovely poem.

Posted by dofacc
I have to admit Il Penseroso is a new one on me,

mate you have not lived!!!! you see you have Il Penseroso (Cancer moon days😢) then you can rock it out with l'Allegro..

(hence loathed melancholoy)

..hence thee nymph and bring with thee
jest and youthful jollity
sport, that wrinkled Care derides
and Laughter, holding both his sides..


I always imagine Laughter rolling about, pissing himself laughing!
John Milton is The Man.

**get thee to the library dofacc

***haste

haste thee nymph


too many glasses of mead before typing that, methinks