I can't resist inserting here a poem by Mary Holtby, which I think would be a winner if it could be entered:
The Tyger's Reply to Blake
Meagre, meagre little man,
Mouth your verses while you can.
Every predator despises
Metaphysical surmises.
Yet I'm forced to ask myself
From what dim and dusty shelf
Did the Source of Being fetch
Such a miserable wretch?
What the pleasure, what the gain?
In what ferment was His brain
Who aftet sun and star and cat
Formed so poor a thing as that,
Neither swift nor sage nor good,
Scarcely palatable food?
Yet how impertinently Man
Dares speculate how I began!
(from The Muse Strikes Back, A Poetic Response by Women to Men)
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