The Metrosexual

He's achingly lonely, lost in a maze
Of self-reflection. He can't relate
To the opposite sex, despite his urges.
Therefore, he takes the easy route,
And gathers around him a parcel of buds
As unlikely to talk of the female tribe
As ogle him with their puncturing eyes.
It's an isthmus of safety, not fully detached
From the continent of his preference:
He can run away at any time
Should that lady of ladies drift into view;
Should his Ideal Lady with shapely thighs
And winsome winks come bearing bottles
Of artisanal beer; should she appear,
He'll be off at a gallop, seeking a rosebed
Of damasks and albas in buxom bloom,
Only to slink away, tail between legs,
Once he discovers her femme fatale flaw.