| Such profound humiliation
|
| Such all consuming shame
|
| The buzzing from the bathroom
|
| Has finally been explained
|
| That was no electric toothbrush
|
| No facial scrub device
|
| And now I finally know the meaning
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| Of the words «Tim, that was nice»
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| We used two different positions
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| Every other Sunday night
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| All her writhing, moaning, sighing
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| I thought I was doing it right
|
| But as I drifted off to slumber
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| Thinking I had brought her joy
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| She would slink off to the bathroom
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| With that blasted plastic toy
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| All the buzzing, cursed buzzing
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| That damn incessant hum
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| I used to think I was a hero
|
| Can’t believe she didn’t come
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| To tell me that she needed
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| So much more than I could give
|
| Now the buzzing from the bathroom
|
| Tells the lie that we both live
|
| What is pleasure but reunion?
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| When with one soul another joins
|
| Yet I’m haunted by the buzzing from the bathroom
|
| Like tinnitus of the loins |