Soft in her chair she sees the visions bloom
And needs no prince to wake her drowsy flesh.
Soft on her screen she sees the patterns mesh
Of rugged males whose scowling passions loom
With two-gunned violence in her living-room.
Oh, how she loves them, aches to share their throes,
Her feelings sharp and variable as those
Who move in monochrome a switch can doom.
She will not flick it off for flesh and blood.
Where can she give so little, gain so much,
Be heroic without risk, diet without food,
Adventure safely in the bleak outdoors,
Have lovely children without household chores,
And thrill to love untarnished by a touch?