Cactus Man

Like in any desert town, only the ages change

And you marry who you can

It's as good as pre-arranged

Mason worked for Ken at Pogo's tireyard

Ken is Debbie's Dad, and he pushed for Mason

A Sunday meal was planned of porkchops and sweet corn

And Debbie's tender side, stuck a shy and nervous thorn

She called him Cactus Man to let him know

Without attention he'd still grow

And because she feared to kiss his four day beard

Like plastic in the wind, thread without a spool

She would fidget like a child who's been kept too late at school

Mason wondered on and was not a heavy hand

Out past the old rail line where the scrubbrush turns to sand

Debbie drove and drank, swallowed by the choice

Of a woman on her own in a bar of reservation boys

She called him Cactus Man

At the tireyard again; "Can't you keep you woman down?"

But Ken was at his side, said "Son, you've got to turn her heart around"

So Mason bought a dress and shoes 12 months after they wed

And he crept inside the door where she was visiting with friends

He heard Debbie laugh and say, "He's thicker in the head than tires that he piles and he's clumsy as a bull in bed"

She called him Cactus Man...

At half past two a.m., she stumbled up the stairs

It was strange with Mason gone, she found herself worrying where

The bedroom was awash in a blue light from the station

At first she thought the girls were trying to play a prank on Mason

The shoes were forced half on, his chin was shaven clean

The tiny patterned dress had ripped down both the seams

Hanging from a chain, fists clenched at his side

The coroner found a note there

Addressed to an unhappy bride

"You called me Cactus Man..."