in the bathroom is an old jar of vaseline

on seeing it my cat heads for the doors

but really what else can I look forward to

now the virus has curtailed my amours?

 

when much younger I was an altar boy

serving old father macdonagh at the altar

did he ever give in to wayward thoughts?

did those vows of celibacy never falter?

 

the convent was replete with pious old nuns

doing endless good works for the afflicted

those saints knew sex was off the agenda

to poverty and chastity they were addicted

 

but I never signed up for any such vows

this virus reduced me to a trappist monk

I'm like a tom-cat trapped on a hot tin roof

my sex-life has been torpedoed and sunk

 

out there must be an agony of frustration

people itching like mad but unable to scratch

grown women hum, febrile with hungry looks

going out of their minds for any sort of catch

 

I feel they should put something in the water

in the trenchies the squaddies got bromide

otherwise they would have lost their reason

scarpered, or succumbed to mass suicide

 

today's romantic encounters can be deadly

first impressions no longer make me roar

all that counts is an up to date test result

vital statistics are not relevant any more

 

my skin's getting wrinkly from cold showers

that old jar of vaseline has lost its allure

if only the animal sanctuary would ring

my cat's had it, she's migrated next door