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..."