I was the Pink Pansy or whatever, wearing this crazy thing.
If there was ever a bigger pansy than my father, it was Marcel Proust.
Tis but a scratch!" "A scratch? Your arm's off!" "No it isn't." "Then what's that?" "Oh come on, pansy!
Pansy," Murphy sneered. Thomas leered at her. "You make my stamen tingle when you talk like that, Sergeant.
I don't want to be labeled as either a pansy or a heterosexual. Labeling is so self-limiting. We are what we do - not what we say we are.
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears.