I feel them, looking daggers at my soul.
Women I'll never meet, have never seen,
who don't know all the places that I've been
that they've been too. And, really, on the whole
perhaps it's best. I am a shabby rake
no good example. Somewhere there must be
somebody who'd do better far than me
convincing them their hate is a mistake
somebody younger, smarter, lovelier far
whose gorgeous dialectic of the skin
could both convince them and seduce them in
mere moments. But since such pure women are
above mere lust, she'd leave them to their hate,
come find me, maybe ask me on a date.