My Nights Out Are A Growing Doubt

I listen to ladies pine talk of their ideal thin indie boys
it's so hard to win them over and I can't stand feeling so jealous
I don't have that instigating glance or eye catching style of dress
my look's less ragged, more man, more made of a million dollars

friends leave me standing at the women's toilet block entrance
leaning on the wall I scour the dancefloor and begin doubting my chances
with these girls who're all taken and I can't help but feel mistaken
for choosing these nights to exploit endless plights of budding romance

being in this place dancing and drinking's got me wistfully thinking
I don't want to be alone but what use is the company when I know
they're not inclined to me or slightly interested in me taking them home
needing a cigarette I slip into the courtyard and pull out my phone

I stand huddled; smoke in the rain, check the time and see the hour is late
I debate back and forth should I leave or stay and what will eventuate
I put it down to being out here amidst all the antics and frantic romance
I search for answers in the tired faces and sigh at all the heart I've wasted
the echo in my head says, as it does every week; that true love can't be persuaded
it must be made and you've got to grab it even when you think it's about to be taken