Love song of the aging new man

And I would clean for you, my love,
and run the Dyson over carpets every day,
pour lime-scale solvent round the base of taps
and burnish chrome, so you could see your sleepy face.

And I would cook for you, my love,
not Tesco ready meals but freshly bought
ingredients combined in cunning ways
to stimulate your taste buds and your eye.

And I would wash for you, my love,
and separate the whites from coloureds, set
the cycle, shake out creases, hang to dry
in gentle breezes, even iron your smalls.

And I would play for you, my love,
the music and the DVDs you like,
suppressing my own preference
for arty films, Bing Crosby, western swing.

And I shall wait for you, my love,
and wait perhaps until the day I die.
If you exist, the least I can expect
is you'll be pretty nearly perfect too.