Woman, potent monument of beauty,
Holds all men in her sway as Cleopatra.
Like daffodils, like feeble marsh grass cowering,
She bends them to her ever-changing will.
Her poison-laced allure has made her infamous,
As soft caressing words have made her famous.
Yet for all her subtle charms and tongue's enticement,
For all the world she holds in her manicured hand,
One thing will do this woman in,
One thing disprove autonomy:
With devilish spider on the wall,
Who calls she then but man?