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He doesn't price his paintings before the canvas dries |
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His life is living colors like the ones in the sky |
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On the fourth of July, on the fourth of July |
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You can keep the closet door cracked |
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Look outside and dodge accusing eyes |
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And be yourself for the first time |
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Bristles and whiskers and a broad jawline is the prize |
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Enjoy it now because at sunrise |
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Your friends and family think you're a pervert contaminating their lives |
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He hides his dirty movies |
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He kisses his wife |
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She has a suspicion of his filthy desire |
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They don't make love, they **** |
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They don't make love, they **** |
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And he assumes it's enough |
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They both pretend to come |
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With a common image of another man man filling them with love |
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He lives his life |
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Shaving the whiskers that prickle his wife |
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She's sitting in a pew praying to a father: |
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He better purge that closet before the canvas dires |
