You envy me my sentences astute.
You hate me for my mastery of the sign
So why throw Ludwig’s ladder with your doubt?
You wish dismisses me as wild lambs bleat.
You hate the way I draw a circle round a line
You corrupt me making sentences astute
What use is it to me to Dirac quote,
To exist on a grant and study Quine,
When phallic symbols are forbidden fruit?
Do children spring from minds of my repute?
Must I as female offer to decline?
You envy me my symbolic repute
What is signified by my own doubts?
Is the unnamed nameless or divine?
Must signifiers suffer signs’ defeat?
If Kings who lost their heads had but resigned
And infants happy climbed their wooden frames
You’d envy not my sentences astute.
Post-modernity caused damage et tu brute