The Midnight Oil

It happens more and more as time goes by

and sometimes it could make an old bloke cry.

I’ll get on the train and there’s no empty seat

but I spy a cute chick who I’d like to meet.

Then she’ll get up and offer her seat to me,

‘cos I’m an “old bloke” she can plainly see.

And what do you do for a poor old bloke,

ya kick him in the ego, don’t give it a stroke.

With ego deflated I accept her gift

even though in my spirit there is a rift.

‘Cos to be quite honest, at end of day

the old bones are weary anyway

and what would I do with a hot young chick;

ya can’t burn the midnight oil if you can’t light the wick.

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About a foolhardy florilegium

Nullius addictus iurare in verba magistri
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