Androgyne, mon amour

Androgyne, mon amour,
I have heard nothing truer
than the soft-whispered sound of your name;
I’ve seen shadows obscure
lit by moonlight less pure
than the gleam of your angular frame.

Androgyne, mon amour,
why so meek and demure?
You’re no bustled, sidewhiskered Victorian.
You’re the rococo cure
to modernity’s lure,
and of Ganymede’s cult the historian.

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