I fear I am a novice at getting romance right,
for every run I take at love ends up in my flight.
My first love was too cheerful. He was constantly jocund.
His physique was rolly-polly, and in time he grew rotund.
Once I escaped his clutches, I was happier by far,
but my next love was bittersweet, as seconds often are,
for I had found an athlete, less clownish and much fitter,
but I could not keep up with him, so once more love turned bitter.
After that I tried a lawyer, a butcher, then a teacher,
a roust-about, a cowboy, a restaurateur, a preacher.
But nothing ever seemed to work, for those I found disarming
were the ones that always seemed to find me less than charming.
Somehow I never quite matched up when it came to matching.
Every time I fell in love, it didn’t end up catching.
So all-in-all, much as I love a fond embrace and kiss,
I think that when it comes to love, I’ll just give it a miss.