My man is a tin soldier
He drinks three pints of bear at one go
He wears a checked suit with a patch on an elbow
My man is a scorcher
He has an invisible band and a miniature out of tune guitar
He has a cat, Lucifer, whose tail he has hooked to a jar
My man is a fibber
He made our bride-bed with the cotton gory sheets
He is a well-off one but loves selling his body on streets
I can cry my man a river
I can get over his cheats and dirty treats and kinks
But I taste his mouth as a stale and withered sweet
I can be a manly man for my man
I can water the geranium for him and breath in his dust
I can buy him a porcelain tea-set and bake him a cake without a crust
I can be my man's mother or a postman
Or a horn he can blow on a ticker tape parade
Or a vigorous banner on his blasphemous crusade
I even can be my man's brother
And then we will be marching together on his toy ground
And he will show me all his toy rifles and page boys and clowns around
At least then he might allow me to be his lover