He’s weak all ways and can’t perform; fear my desire’s now on the floor.
I look at him and do not see the kind of man want inside me.
His belly’s big, his member’s soft, needs Viagra to just get off.
I cannot smile, pretend to care, when I remove my underwear.
He has his needs, yeah; and so what? That’s nice tool shed, his big fat gut.
From flaccid start we do progress and when he’s done I’m barely wet.
The span of time has done him wrong, in old folk’s home’s where he belongs.
I’m young, he’s old, and truth be told his late-life mess just leaves me cold.
There is no joy or appetite as with my hand perform the rite,
the rite I swear every time is final one; no bump, no grind.
My hands revolt, my mouth says, “Whoa!” I got no hole where he can go.
The Joy of Sex is just a joke as his rooster I once more choke.
I wish him well, I truly do, but swear I’ll scream next time we screw.
“Enough’s enough! You’re parasite. I get you off, you drift good night.”
As with the drift of continents divided by incontinence.
To share a bed with such as he each night eight hours of misery.
To separate room I often go, I blame it on his snoring so,
but, truth be told, it’s so much more; I feel pity yet him deplore.
I know hindsight’s twenty-twenty but now regret mar’ing money.
My path’s unclear which way to go, one thing is plain, our sex-life blows.
A dalliance, a secret tryst, might restore me but it has risks.
I’d be content as his housemate, in separate rooms cohabitate.
Symbiosis is long since dead, may bite it off next time give head.
There is no more romantic love; man needs a lei? How bout foxglove?