Old Fart

Although I'm getting on a bit,
I know the girls still fancy me.
I see it when they pass me by
and take a second glance at me.

I know a come-on when I see one
and certainly know what to do
but try to check that she's a free one
before I follow through.

Some girls are quite up-front for it
and take a sexy stance for me;
I always know I've made a hit
when mothers look askance at me.

Most women fantasise the fun
of titivating someone new
so who am I that I should shun
more passes than I'm due ?

Despite my grey hair I'm quite fit
and stun them when they dance with me.
I also charm them with my wit
to make them take a chance  on me.

It's easy if you've got the cheek
to woo them with your soulful sighs
and anyway I've got the cash
to get between their thighs.

I love to help them shed their kit;
I guess I'm just a ladies' bum,
a sucker for a thrusting tit
and in my pocket ain't no gun.

But girls these days are much too sly;
they lead you on then change their minds
and suddenly they turn so shy
and flounce away their plump behinds.

So here I am alone again
which seems to be my usual plight.
Still -
though not the luckiest of men,
tomorrow is another night.

A day in May, weekend in June
and weeks in April very soon
were fading memories in view
of all the rest of life in you.

There's been so many disappointments lately -
England flunking the world cup,
Murray tamely surrendering Wimbledon,
missing the share price peak;
the poppy seed I sowed along the road didn't grow
and the meconopsis seedlings that I watched for months
so laboriously struggling for life all died;
sad sod, stick to the usual disappointment -
that the women I fancy never fancy me.

Because I was discontented with my wife
and you are beautiful, I fell in love
thinking that love alone was valuable
and worth recall, ready to abandon all
for this unsought intensity of life.

With more to lose, cautious for comfort's sake,
you fit your feeling to a routine shape,
lengthening winter's coldness into spring
as if in doing so you hope to win
a victory over passion for the mass.

Together we might find a compromise,
on frosty nights or in a morning bed
and read, in meeting one another's eyes,
the story of the life we might have led.

Shy perhaps and maybe needing extra time before appearing in public?
Or else a little backward, not deserving any censure or comment?
Possibly less innocent and rather more diabolic,
cunningly preparing some dramatic entrance?
Just hesitantly waiting the perfect moment?
How explain to impatient gardeners
the lethargy of seeds?

Leaving, I gave my love a rose,
fragrant, royal, red,
saying "Take this flower from him
you kept from your bed."
Glaring at me, proud in parting,
sharply she said

"What am I to do with it?
Why give me this?
I don't want your gestures now
or farewell kiss."
Just as I'd guessed she would -
a chance not to miss.

"Just let it die," I said,
"wither and die.
Don't ever water it,
cover the sky.
Just like my love for you,
just let it die."

Turning she left me with her smile,
dazzling, royal, red,
saying "I shall keep your flower
though love has fled.
Having no root it must of course
quickly be dead."

Technology changes a lot;
old skills can be forgot;
blacksmiths are few
but the adage is true -
strike while the iron's hot.