She hides behind the young, the cute, the hot
who wander through my life. Will sometimes smile
across a party or a street. And while
it could be some quite fancy me, she's not
a woman who might creep into my bed
or stroke my cheek. At least she's not too young-
poets long dead have sighed for her and sung
her praises. And she whispers in my head
all my best verse. She does not let me choose
chaster imaginings – that door is shut.
To woo her, I have got to be a slut
who chases women I will always lose.
Each time I swear I'll never lust again.
She fills my ears with verse that soothe my pain