A tin soldier lies in my bed, the last man standing
On a crusade; Denying flesh and blood,
But if f I am white then he is red.
I throw down-duvet over, not to divide,
I creep under as well, it is a cold night and
The boiler is bust but we are two.
Muscles are what he claims to be,
Well, at least it is better than steel
And I still drink that smell of sweat.