(When You Feel Like There's Nothing Left - A bleak little poem from spring 2021, about "trans admirers" and all that, and the ultimate emptiness of casual sex)

So, you found my profile on a website.
My God, how have I fallen so low?
In the lockdown I couldn’t even do THIS –
It’s worse than you’ll ever know.
And the English guys keep their socks on.

I suppose it’s better than NO contact
But now I feel nothing at all.
I open the door and they leave
I don’t hear them walk down the hall.
And the English guys keep their socks on.

There’s no point hoping and praying,
I must do something else with my life.
Was my GP right when she said,
This is all to do with your wife?
And the English guys keep their socks on.

I’m not going to get miserable about this,
It’s just that last week was bad.
Three of the men were married.
Are their weekends and Christmases sad?
And the English guys keep their socks on.