I must bear in mind that she is, like the Taj Mahal,
The Imam mosque, a thing of peerless beauty, 
But she'll never be my home.  So young and seemingly 
So shallow, she has neither will nor means to tend
To an irascible old man, such as myself.  Oh, how
I work to overturn my judgement that she can't
Be mine.  Why can't someone so lovely be?  Because
My glory days have passed.  A shadow of the one
I was, who was, in truth, not ever someone who
Could offer much to her, I know she has no use
For me, and, thus, a tourist, I observe her, 
Circling 'round, suffused with awe, but destined
To retreat to an apartment or a hotel room,
And, afterward, my prairie home, my mind
Filled with impotent visions, better off left
In a trash bin near the Taj Mahal.