Oh damn it all the good letters have gone

Increasingly as you get older
someone (whoever) is remote
peers through portcullis and moat
And the world grows ever colder

Increasingly "someone" means just that
a panel viewing your audition
through a folded paper partition
And the world grows ever fat

Increasingly you apologise
for tiresome singularity
and out-of-turn hilarity
And the world is fossilised

Increasingly you are perplexed
by recollecting how they used
to light up when you were seduced
And the world is undersexed

Increasingly you hope that someone
simply alive comes out to play
(the consequence was sweet FA,
and the world said "you're a rum one")