Every day on your way as you drive home from work
There’s a place that you go where the gentlemen lurk
There’s some would deny they are manly at all
You know different, you’ve heard the call.
Everyone there has this thing on his mind
And it gnaws and it chews at you. Much of the time
You can deny who you are, but you lie to yourself
Save for this contribution to your mental health.
Then you poison your body with his body, poison your heart with his mind,
Poison your soul with his lack of control, every time.
Stop the car by the trees you won’t be alone.
Hide your wallet, your keys and your mobile phone.
Take off your tie and fold it up neat under the paper on the passenger seat.
Then you wait and you watch and pretend not to see,
Read a book, have a smoke, or simply feign sleep,
While you check out the talent through nearly closed eyes.
Such abundance of choice Mother Nature supplies.
Then you poison your body with his body, poison your heart with his mind,
Poison your soul with his lack of control, every time.
If no one approaches raise the game
The rules of the hunt very rarely change.
Leave the car, lock the door with barely a sound
And into the wood where you hope you’ll be found.
Find a place in a space where the cover is good.
Then you stand and you wait in this threatening wood.
Take a leak, feel relief, your heart skips a beat
At the crack of a twig and approaching feet.
Then you poison your body with his body, poison your heart with his mind,
Poison your soul with your lack of control, every time.
Look away. Then a glance. Then the flash of an eye.
Then you turn to display and the tension is high.
Recognise, as you rise, here’s a partner in shame;
How he looks doesn’t matter since he won’t know your name.
Look around to make sure that there’s no one else there.
Slowly close in and continue to stare.
You don’t know who you are, but you know who you aren’t.
You can’t fight it off, so continue the dance.
First a touch, just a brush, and you feel you will burst.
But that’s cool. Then at least you’ll be over the worst
And you won’t have to stay in this terrible place
With a chance, just a glance and he’ll remember your face.
So go with the flow and you feel the relief
Of the thrill as you spill in the cheery belief
That you’ll never come back, but you know it’s a lie
And you’ll always be drawn no matter how hard you try.
Then you poison his body with your body, poison his heart with your mind,
Poison his soul with your lack of control, every time.
Nod your goodbyes and you get in your car.
Then you drive to the pub for a quick half-jar
Just to steady your nerves, get your reasoning straight
As to why you’ll arrive home tonight slightly late.
What to do? Where to go? You are living a lie.
What you do might be fun, but it’s obvious why
There’s no sense of pride, just this burden of shame
And you’re looking for a love that still won’t dare say its name.
Then you poison her body with your body, poison her heart with your mind,
Poison her soul with your lack of control, every time.
Only fair, if you care, every once in a while
That you go to the clinic where they’ll add to the file
That they keep on your health in your fictitious name
And where the staff know the score in this sad, sad game.
They’ll listen and nod while you make up some tale.
As they check out your piss and your blood you regale
Them with the story that you don’t know how you got in this state,
But they know they can never trust a smiling straight.
So poison a body with a body, poison a heart with a mind,
Poison a soul with lack of control, every time.
(Music and lyrics by Marshlander - all rights reserved)
I heard a discussion on daytime radio many years ago when a nurse working in genito-urinary medicine stated that people in her line of work often passed on the advice to younger colleagues, “Never trust a smiling straight man.” Despite appearances "Cruiser" is not an anti-gay rant. The song is a recognition that there are powerful and malign influences out in the world forcing some men (and undoubtedly some women) to explore their sexual identities in secret. Sadly people often end up getting hurt when this happens. 1967 did not see the end of persecution; rather it ushered in an intensification of entrapment activities by the police. It took them a while to realise that, in 1973, short, neatly-combed hair, shiny black shoes and regulation spotlessly clean and pressed pale blue jeans was not entirely a useful look for covert operations in public conveniences. I'd like to think we are the last generation to have to deal with this. I suspect we may not be.
Since I discovered it many years ago I have searched for an excuse to use a diminished seventh chord. It seems to fall into place in this song and convey some of the drama in the story.
