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.