One More Dance
To the young man who kindly bought me a drink,
I am in my sixties so what did you think,
my reaction would be to advances you made,
when it's over ten years since I last got laid?
I know that the flirting is part of your job,
and my manner and dress sence suggest I'm a snob,
But the thought of your touch on this body neglected,
caused wetness to flow from regions connected,
to lace underwear put on in with the plan,
of making myself seem sexier than,
I feel these days on a day to day basis,
as my labido pulls on a leash unabated,
by what I look like to those who can see,
a different image reflected at me,
by a mirror that traces a secretive life,
of failed attempts by the specialist knife.
To lift and tuck.
Push up and enhance.
Just to seem worthy of life's last dance.
So with stocking tops showing these legs, that once had a shape more alluring instead,
of pathetic old sticks riddled with veins,
purple and blue that this aged old dame,
presents to the world as something that must,
ignite the fires of this younger man's lust.
So I smile at you sweetly and lie like the best,
and offer such statements as false as my breasts.
Although I yearn to have you deep within me,
It's fate that says you're too young to see,
the woman I was a such a long time ago,
whose excitable 'Yes' would replace the sad 'No'.
For the offer sex so passionate then,
is something I yearn for again and again.
So to the young man who winks at me,
so sure what I'd say.
Be careful.
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