“We cannot be kind to each other here for even an hour. We whisper, and hint, and chuckle and grin at our brother’s shame; however you take it we men are a little breed.”– Alfred Lord Tennyson

I gathered the ugly scorpion to my chest, holding it close

though it stung and poked my skin, the sting is what I chose

The violence of the act is not mine, but the memory stays

I relive it over and over, for this torture I eagerly pay

I understand my choice, led to this daily deprecation

I bite off the flailing stinger, using my meal for extrication

The dire creature lays at my side, in an obvious and final death

Over the shame of my choice, without pain taking my breath

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