I am woman.
Real all the time.
You are man.

Late at night
You call me.

Babe,
I miss talking to you.
I really like you.
That’s why I can’t talk to you
When I’m sober.
Or when
I’m
Not stoned. Because I like you so much
I get nervous
And mumble or fall over.

Babe,
I’m real fond of you
What say we meet up Saturday?
This Saturday, next Saturday, maybe every Saturday for the next ten years.

I’m cautious.
Real cautious, about this.

But I’m kinda fond
Of this guy
When he’s being real,
Or even when he’s being real man
And pretending not to be.
Or is just too shit scared to be.

This was not in my gameplan I say.

But you go on talking real and sweet.

I think
Somewhere in this world
There’s got to be a real man
By which I mean
One with heart and soul
And honour and guts.

By which I mean a man like me.

So I say
One more time.

I’ll come out into the world.

Because you might just be the only real man in it.

I have the conviction, you see,
That there is one out there somewhere.

Just one.

I have never met him
And I don’t know anyone who has.

But, like the Holy Grail, I think he’s out there somewhere.

I get a babysitter.
I ring you.

Some other guy takes the call.
He’s real cool.
He has your voice.

This guy can fit me into his busy schedule sometime.
But it’s no big deal.
And thanks for calling.

I put down the phone
I sit by the fire
And I am shocked,
Real shocked.

That I, woman, am still slave to the dream of real man,

And you, man, are still slave to the fear of it.