But there comes an idea-less lad,
With a strut, and a stare, and a smirk;
And I watch, scientific though sad,
The Law of Selection at work.
Of Science he hasn’t a trace,
He seeks not the How or the Why.
But he sings with an amateur’s grace,
And dances much better than I.
And we know the more modified males
By dance and by song win their wives,