Men need women to reproduce.
Old Gloria’s gone, she’s checked right out, the matriarch is dead,
No longer fueling sisterhood or filling minds with dread.
At ninety-two, she took her bow, packed up her
Ms. and files,
Leaving men to raise a glass and crack some quiet smiles.
She loved that little fishy phrase about the two-wheeled bike,
A snarky quote she peddled out for every girl alike:
"A woman needs a man," she scoffed, "like fish need handlebars!"
An absolute zoological joke exported to the stars.
For if a female guppy wants to spawn her little crew,
She needs a male to swim along—no bicycle will do!
Ignoring basic biology to score a snappy line,
She left the ladies stranded while the fellas did just fine.
And oh, the greatest irony of all her grand crusades:
The radical commander of the liberated maids
Was deep inside the payroll of the company in Langley,
Untangling global politics while acting oh-so-twangy.
A spook, a spy, an agent for the sneaky CIA,
Spreading freedom doctrines while Uncle Sam would pay!
So wave goodbye to Gloria, the bunny-suit detective,
Whose fishy, bike-free science was visually defective.