Hallelujah, I live in the city of beautiful women;
thank God I live in this place—there can be no better
because everywhere I go there are just beautiful women;
why do none of them see me?

Can’t they see I am incurably romantic?
Please don’t confuse me with those other guys,
out of shape somewhat deflated boy toys,
what could possibly be criticized?

I live in the city of beautiful women—
at least Odysseus was tied to his mast—
as poignant a metonym as I ever encountered—
soon as we fly our flag our wit is cut to pieces.

The city of beautiful women is not
a very beautiful place—there is war
going on— covert and out in the open.
Everyone says what a waste,
what a bust, what a pair of scams.
We all complain, we’re unable to do anything
about it, so we just acquiesce to the inevitable.

Help! I am trapped in the city of beautiful women,
do not ignore me, I am calling for your aid!
Try and find some way to get me out of here—
but, whatever you do—don’t come here to save me.

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