A scorpion must woo his mate with care
And make his play to neutralise the sting
That otherwise she may well bring to bear
And terminate his amatory fling.
Though lacking any weapons on display,
We humans, too, perform a special dance
And, in the rough and tumble of the fray,
We brandish words which further our advance.
The acme of success in this would be
To hear you cry surrender with your smile,
Or that by my demeanour you would see
This plea, which harbours neither feint nor guile:
That you of me should know, and mark it well -
Within me love for none but you can dwell.
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