I am a Beaver

I am a beaver; I sit in class and listen      
to ladies in souse meandering of minds      
willfully denying my caudal existence;        
these drivers are my abiding pet peeve.        
       
I am a beaver: I work on ancient enzymatic        
reaction through exquisite nerve endings,        
I arrived at genesis using nothing        
but my hands... and my sexily pica teeth;        
       
I am a beaver; my music’s been honed        
by generations of evolutionary alleles,      
upon my pelt is beautiful fury        
of a productive wasteland unseen.      
       
I am a clocked phenotype, desperate to exercise
frustration in damn-building; perfect in synapses
firing an embryological chain of causation,  
admittedly, I keep alone and I know; I am a beaver.