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