Suddenly, now in spring,
from nowhere they come,
filling my town with a sensuous scent;
those beautiful, elegant women.

In blue slacks, dyed beard
and my best baseball cap
the mirror tells me that I’m still dashing,
so how come that they ignore me?

Am I a shadow of the past?
Look into the polished surface of a shop window
and a manly perfection stars back
and broadly smiles.

Pull my stomach in,
that’s tiring, turn and try to catch a glance of my bum,
sit-coms tell me that a woman likes a man’s firm behind.

Take off my glasses
casually stroll down the avenue,
a gent with class
not an upstart of a boulevardier.
So why do those lovelies ignore me?