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What makes me love him?
It's not his singing,
I've heard his singing,
It sours the milk
And yet, it's gotten to the point
Where I prefer that kind of milk.
What makes me love him?
It's not his learning.
He's learned so slowly,
His whole life long
And though he really knows
A multitude of things
They're mostly wrong.
He's not romantic,
And yet I love him.
No one occasion
He's used me ill
And though he's handsome
I know inside me
Were he a plain man
I'd love him still.
What makes me love him?
It's quite beyond me,
It must be something
I can't define.
Unless it's merely
That he's masculine
And that he's mine.
