Sometimes we fool ourselves that men,
Might just be worth a try again.
But then they begin to sniff or snort,
And suddenly they're not our sort.
Or maybe they go all aloof,
And we realise we've made a goof.
Surely, somewhere, there's one who's nice?
Who hasn't got a secret vice?
Who hates footy and the rest?
And knows how to treat us best?
But how come they're so hard to find?
This searching's just become a bind!
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