A muffled sob strikes through the night
And punctuates the peace.
The gimp is all bereft again:
With no one to hold his leash.
No partner here to share his life;
His heart feels lost and limp.
There's no pleasure in the paddle now,
Now he's the loneliest gimp.
A lover who will heal his soul
Is nowhere to be found.
(After all, it's hard to date
When blind-folded, taped and bound.)
He's tried introduction websites,
Dinner parties and speed dating.
One girl said she'd call him.
Two years later, he's still waiting.
He just wants someone to understand
His needs – which are complex.
He wants love and sweet affection
And gentle, sensible sex.
A job's a job, it pays the bills.
His work should not define him.
But, like the cage he sits inside,
His profession does confine him.
To meet a woman of his type,
He needs to change his tactics.
Nice girls aren't so keen on men
Who dress like prophylactics.
He's sobbing oh so softly,
But it's not a conscious choice.
You see, when you wear a ball-gag
It's hard to raise your voice.
In an attic room in Soho
No one can hear his cries.
And his limbs are strapped so tightly,
He can't even wipe his eyes.
So when you have life troubles
Count it advantageous,
That you don't have to wear a gimp mask
In order to earn your wages.