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A cringing woman’s lot is hard,

A harlot and a fool,

She kneels and whimpers to her lord—

But I was born to rule!

I know that man is not a god,

I reign in gold and red.

All men are vassals to my rod,

My kingdom is my bed.

And soldiers come before whose feet

Warriors and kingdoms crouch,

Yet they like all confess defeat

At morning on my couch.

And debauches with scornful lips

Who gather girls like coins;

They bow to conquest of my hips,

The prowess of my loins.

And men from over sea-green waves,

From night and setting sun,

Adventurers and kings and slaves

My girdle have undone.

They came to sing my eyes of grey,

My full lips scarlet-red,

And all went forth less proud that they

Had lain upon my bed.

I draw them, serpent, with my charms

Like passion whips that flay;

With clinging legs and clinging arms

I reft their souls away.

Aye, I have led a thousand men

Through flames of all the Hells.

And laughed and flung them forth again

Bedazed and broken shells.

And I have swept a thousand more

To peaks of ecstasies

And taught them more than ancient lore

Between my restless knees.

Let cringing woman kneel and fawn—

Her speech and actions guard,

And naked, writhe and tremble on

The knees of her harsh lord.

My shoulders never felt the rod

For harlot, slave and fool;

I know that man’s a foolish god

That I was born to rule.