I have a somewhat homely face,
my nose is wrong, I’m told,
and my body never would have graced a Playgirl centrefold.
But though I’m no Lothario,
I own a natural charm,
I’ve always had a woman on my arm.
But the supply’s run dry.
I think I know why.
My bloom of youth has faded,
my mirror tells the truth,
my joie-de-vivre is jaded,
I’m too long in the tooth.
Affairs unfold so rarely now,
sporadic, inconsistent,
the last one was so long ago,
my love-life’s nonexistent.
Since then there hasn’t been a nibble,
not a soupcon, not a trace;
no maiden, ms or errant miss
has even granted me a kiss.
The upshot’s this:
I’ve become resistible.