There are signs men don’t find,
helpful—nor even too kind,
“If such things exist,” they say,
“They are subtle and aren’t paid much mind.”
Thoughtless eyes plaguing them may,
Distort what should be seen as clear as day,
Forcing them to become what they should be,
But making them crawl along the way.
Guys are blind, they rarely see,
The woman in front of them wanting tea,
And though they themselves may hold the key,
It might take a while for them to drop the knee.
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