Every ethnicity has a soul,
But only the poet has a soul that is whole.
If I could be an ethnicity, which one would I be?
None. I would rather write poetry.
I could be a Chinese nerd, and love beauty unselfconsciously.
The men there are either severe or nerdy,
And if you are nerdy you may still love a beauty,
Since millions—how sweet!—of the men are nerdy
And the Chinese women don’t care how men look.
Beauty in China is measured by how well you read a book.
The Italian men have swagger in their soul
And fight over their beautiful women to feel whole.
The English men are brutish and sarcastic,
And in response, the English women are sarcastic, too.
The German man is thoughtful. His dreams are fantastic.
The Pole shrugs. The Arabs shower cigarettes on you.
Russians share feelings, the friendly Africans flirt.
The Frenchman is theoretical, the French woman, rather curt.
The Spaniard prefers a mysterious smile, the Irishman, a song,
The people of India are jolly, but intense, when they prove you wrong.
Americans? This mixture hasn’t been around for long.
The men are arrogant, they look around
At the world they rule, which America recently found.
A miracle, I was raised a poet here. I write poems for Cupid,
Not for these—they’re either feminist, or stupid.