A Man Without Virility
What if all I see upon your form is the spread of your hips?
What impropriety, if nothing else, can thus be drawn out of this deplorable image?
Forgive my French; my forward ways always seem to get the better of me.
I am old as a man, but my mind has not grown as much as any of my limps.
I used to think with age wisdom shall stick like bees on a wild flower,
But mine is a hive full of untoward cravings.
Pardon me if I seem to be a lost cause
See, I grew up with the sort of men that lacked any semblance of propriety
Who saw women as tools to be used as and when need arises.
But now my love has found you, a princess in her own right,
Lovely as a peanut, straight as an arrow
Such a pure rarity, I ought to love you right
With flowers and song, and a little courtesy like they do in movies.
Well cropped hair, nicely trimmed moustache, the whole shebang.
But I am not schooled enough in that respect.
I know not any other way to love except this way
With my indecorous ways and my basket full of titillating verses.
If you please, Natalia, teach me how to be a man.
Mold me into a replica of the man of your dreams
So that when you look at me,
You will see all that you envision in your dreams.
School me in the semantics of love: how a man ought to treat a lady
So that when I look at you I can see past your shapely body
And begin to read your thoughts and secret desires
To which I will devote my all
And be by your side for the remainder of my days.