No one wants to kiss me anymore,
Now that I am sixty-four,
My hair is now gray,
But I still roll in the hay,
An amorous paramour.

No one wants to sex me anymore,
I look like an aged troubadour,
But inside I’m still randy
For womanly candy,
But the ladies say, ‘What for?’

Oh, where is a woman so fine,
Who drinks an extra glass of wine,
And seeks a man like me,
With firm sexuality
That ends in orgasm divine?

I seem to recall when sixty-nine
Was more than just an age,
When passion was a possibility
For men with virility
As a senior in a randy stage.

Oh, what an enormous joke,
For all us older blokes,
To have such desire
For womanly fire,
And learn that mature love is a hoax.

No one wants to kiss me anymore,
Now that I am sixty-four,
My hair may be gray,
But I still roll in the hay,
And I seek a paramour.