I know men hang on to your every word;
I've heard them all before: recycled anecdotes
that bore me into submission every time...
(Every time...) it's the same - it's pretty much exactly the same.
Legions of adoring admirers,
not just a pretty face;
your friends will testify.
I might believe you, if not for all the
patronising lectures that ramble on (and on and on)
do very little to endear yourself to me;
you won't impress with your tales of high society.
(Society) dictates that we should be grateful for such a precious commodity...
...but women are just as common as men, so you aren't a 'one-in-a-million',
and so, naturally, you're not special to me.
Thunderously bored now, my weary ears can take no more
incessant droning, but I'm still here, unsatisfied, desensitised,
and I'm still not spent.