surgeon generals health warning for women handling love poems

What if Christopher Marlow had said:

"Make me immortal with a crotch itch."

Or Lord Byron:

"She walks in splendour like a crotch itch."

Or Shakespeare:

"Thou art indeed a crotch itch."

Or Robbie Burns:

"My love is like a red, red, crotch itch."

Or Edgar Allen Poe:

"Thy beauty it has given me a crotch itch

Like the grand tumescence that was Greece

And the glorious erection that was Rome."

Or WB Yeats:

"Maud Gonne you make my crotch itch,

You sexy bitch, you!"

It mightn't have been great poetry

But it might actually have been true.

And they might actually have meant it,

Too.

For always with the love poet you see

A certain marked tendency to exaggerate

The pulchritudinousness of every passing sexy bim

In the hope she might meaningfully reciprocate

With him

Ladies beware

Do not take it to heart

When we wax poetical about your beauty

We are knavish lustful dim witted onomatopests

Me and Lord Byron and Shakespeare and the rest

We may talk a lot about your eyes

Our real interest is more likely to be your breasts