If I was a virgin I could streak across your garden,
drape myself across your armchair like a portrait of a lady
who is unabashed and simple as a cherry in a bowl
and only dreams of ponies and weekends by the seaside,
sipping unchartered water from a baby-blue decanter,
sighing with her slender throat and saving herself.

If I was a virgin I could wear white in winter,
read your dirty magazines with a shy and puzzled look,
like I didn't know a crotch from a coffee-table, darling
I could scream blue bloody murder
when you caught me in the shower,
snatch a towel around my outraged breast,
my eyes awash with droplet tears,
I wouldn't hold your hand in public, if I was a virgin,
I would never spill spaghetti on my jeans.
My voice would be as gentle as an angel blowing bubbles,
I would be terrified by frisbees and sports of any kind,
I would always ride my bicycle side-saddle.

If I was a virgin I'd look great in a bikini.
I'd feed you grapes and rye bread
and my hands would smell of soap.
You would hold me in your arms like a precious piece of crockery,
I would sob into your jacket, you would gasp inside your pants.

If I was a virgin, you wouldn't look at other girls,
you would spring-clean your apartment
before you asked me round for supper,
give me your bed, spend the night on the sofa,
dreaming of the gentle way I breathed inside my bra,
my nightgown would remind you of fragrant summer orchards,
and nobody would know my mouth tastes of peaches
and I thrash in my sleep like a baboon.