Aphrodite spite thee

with the intelligence of a god,

for whom intelligence is the base,

it would hardly seem odd,

if she got red in the face,

when with the click of some keys,

at a relatively quick pace,

an insult crafted with ease,

entered her digital interface,

but with the crack of a whip,

and tightening of a lace,

she was fast to equip,

the power which lay in grace,

with a quick blow,

like mace to the face,

he soon would know,

not to insult, if not face to face

This poem is about: 
Our world


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