She  likes her men rearing on chargers
In the  battle field cutting men’s throats,
And finds warlike bodies a suitable  love.

She lives in her island for a female love
But urges men at the wars to make love
And not war and there was no Vietnam.

She lives body’s distress in  fume of life
And loves his body on  midnight’s chest
But tells him do your thing and fuck off.

(The first one is Sappho’s quatrain:

Warriors on rearing chargers, columns of infantry, fleets of warships:
some say these are the shadowy earth’s most glorious visions.
But I say—
the one I desire.)

The second one is “I, Being Born a Woman and Distressed”
a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay)