Know me,
If you can.
Attempt to label me,
Like any other man.
Toss your head,
And laugh,
Like you really understand.
Come on, girl,
I’m sure you know the scam.

What’s it been for you?
Has it actually been three or four?
You’re really quite the socialite,
Making your money through divorce.
You know it’s true ,
That I see through your tour de force,
And my regard for you is quite small,
When trashing men’s lives,
Is your newest blood sport.

You’ve done all that you can to disguise,
But you know it’s really pretty easy to see,
That despite your flair and panache,
You still have to hide those ugly crow’s feet.
So soak, and cream,
And electrolocize,
Then whimper and scream,
And fantasize,
That this will one day be over.

What do you want;
A Lamborghini for Sunday drives?
Or shall we have breakfast with the Dalai Lama,
Just after the Katmandu sunrise?

But for me,
What will you bring to the table?
What if I just want tea on the deck,
And a lazy afternoon playing scrabble?

Yes, I’m getting older,
And a lot more boring,
I suppose,
And no is what I’d have to say,
To going shopping with you for clothes.

I’m a realist,
And looks don’t really matter that much to me,
But if you want genuine friendship,
I’ve got it,
If not,
Then by all means, go on and be free.