If I have to carefully line my eyes for you,
Colour my hair, paint my face and
Perfume my skin,
If I have to wear my very best,
With gold at throat and wrist just for you to see,
If my sagging flesh,
The creases at my neck and crow’s feet about my eyes, I must cunningly disguise,
Then what I have with you is many things, but it is not love.
If it were love then whatever my irregularities
My faults, my mistakes, my ugliness
I would just need to be,
And you would love me.
Who says love comes easy, one merely has to ask!
All these men around me, but not one could I call my lover.