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 fuck
They don't make love, they fuck
And he assumes it's enough
They both pretend to come
With a common image of another 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 dries