I’m an old man, babe.
I can’t keep up with you
like I used to.
How do you keep your beauty?
I’m holding on
to the hairs I’ve got left,
fumbling to catch pedals flitting
off my flowering head.
Look at all those men.
Throwing glances like frisbees
your way, courting and hoping.
Look at what I’m up against, babe.
Look at their swimmer bodies.
If I wake without pain,
it’s a good day indeed.
"You’re graying, darling."
You say things like that and laugh,
reassuringly, saying it looks good.
That it gives off an air of intrigue,
worldliness and wisdom.
I’m alive inside my aging container.
I could throw weights across
a high school football field
if my soul had hands.
But instead I’m left with
a beer gut to toss around,
trying to avoid looking disgusting
when I climb on top of you,
and not like some bear
looking for a tree to mount.
We men are trouble.
Burly, surly, overgrown baby monsters.
But women, we love you to death.
Hell, we would probably drink less
if you asked us to.
LET ME TELL YOU A THING
THIS IS A LEGIT THING
THIS IS LITERALLY WHAT PEOPLE DO TO GET EMUS TO COME CLOSE
Apparently you lie on the ground on your back and move your arms and legs.
And the emus are very curious and come over like, “The fuck is that.”
And that’s literally what it is. They come over wondering what the fuck you’re doing
This might be my favorite piece of information I have ever learned.