If we could live together without death's arrival as an inevitable inbetweener,
Your coyness would not be a misdemeanour.
We'd spend all eternity discussing each angle afresh,
And you'd probably go looking for rubies beside a river in Bangladesh,
Whereas I'd predictably end up somewhere really dull
Like Hull.

My love for you would continue to grow throughout this experience,
As slowly as the territorial expansion of the Romans, or the Assyrians.
For example, I'd spend a hundred years singing about your forehead's benefits,
Then spend another two centuries on each of your many bits,
And another three millenia describing all your curves
Because that's the sort of timescale that a poem about you deserves.
I'd prefer to avoid cutting corners, even when my song
Gets extremely long.

Let's be honest: the day when we shall all grow old and sickly
Is coming quickly,
And I have often heard it said by philosophers and sages
That when you're dead, you remain dead for ages and ages and ages.
People will forget my poetry, and no wonder,
When I'm six feet under.
And my lusting after you will prove to be a failure,
Because there will be nothing left of your body, including your genitalia.
I admit that the grave may be a fine and private location
But it's an inappropriate setting for fornication.

Sooner or later your good looks will fade,
So I think you should take advantage of this opportunity to get laid,
During the short time when you're young and full of beauty,
It's time for some booty.
Because although our future centuries of decay are an easily foreseen time,
I can think of lots of good ways of you and me having fun in the meantime.