This face, darling, could bring wise men to war,
it doesn’t need your macho-man protection.
I’m used to being the centre of attention,
it’s jealousy I seek, not country air.
The smell of goat’s best sampled from afar,
as for lyre-skills, dear, that’s pure invention,
a ruse, to make you think it’s my intention
to sooth your muse, not follow my own star.
I’ll gladly join you in a glass of red,
but I’m not for interweaving through the night.
By ten I’m usually ready for my bed,
to dream of Cyrus’ passions at their height.
And turning men to pigs; that’s in your head.
You do it to yourselves – put out the light.