I’m a man of scant enjoyment, a regular gloomy git,
A perpetual complainer, a really mis’rable shit,
I think chocolates are for losers and I spurn your red, red, rose,
For it makes me sneezy anyways and gets right up my nose.
I don’t care for soppy greetings card or flowers made of silk,
I don’t want to get toy animals or have a bath in milk,
Posh rest’rants make me nauseous, and red wine makes me boak,
And to suggest I go and dine with you, is, well, just a stupid joke.
So, please, don’t send me valentines, don’t say that you’ll be mine,
I live in isolation here and, yes, I’m doing fine,
I have no pets or partners, not e’en a goldfish in a bowl,
But I have to say I like it here, it’s therapeutic for the soul.
So, serve me soup and Kit Kat bars on a cloth of purest white,
And go celebrate some other place and spare me from your shite.