From Men about Women (with thanks to Allan and Barbara Pease)

Me, as a man, I ask thee about women,
The eternal question of why they are so different.
'Tis strange, is the manner of the nature of Venusians,
A mystery they are to us befuddled Martians.
Why do they delight in torturing us so,
With their manner of speech that goes where the winds blows?
And why do they do things that puts our integrity at risk,
Such as loaded questions as unanswerable as, "Does my butt look fat in this?"
Why do they ask us whether we'll like to get some coffee,
Then sulk minutes later and say, "Why won't you get some for me?"
And what is it about ther mood swings that makes us take flight,
The manic-depressive episodes that makes them lik Jekyll and Hyde?
How do they stow the butter such that we men can't find it,
Then miraculously pull it out from the fridge as if by magic?
And why do they keep scolding us, "Don't take that tone with me!",
Even before we clueless men know what's going on already?
Why is it that they can see things without looking,
From the car keys in the corner to knowing when we're ogling?
And yet why can't they do other things with their god-like sight,
Such as parking a car or reading maps right?
Why di the lie-detector's inventor even bother,
When the truth-sense of all women is truly beyond wonder?
And why, when we and they get in a spat,
Do they accuse us of always this and always that?
Finally, a question which I must ask all men,
For it truly is a mind-blower that gets my mind bent,
If they women are beings so strange and so troublesome,
Why in the world do we men still love 'em?