On the east coast of that unheated isle
A tribe of girls survives whose creed consists
Chiefly of singing Happy Fathers' Day
To someone else's father. No males found,
Which makes their culture something of a glitch.
Essentially they beat their boys and float
Young women out to sea at menstruation.
They mate with wind. We do not understand.
The central islanders claim their descent
From great Odysseus. Their Bronze Age rites
Are pure enough to justify their claim,
They know so many chanties about axe-
Hacked thews of sailors; but they haven’t heard
Of boats, making their worship of wet gods
Ironical and plausible and high
Fun for the Left Coast credit-carding clans
Who hold their wives in common, but who keep
Their cowries to themselves. The wives have heard
Reports of the East Coast; though misinformed,
They yearn to ship their kids to school back there.
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