| I found a blue hair comb with a busted tooth gonna comb out my hair in this
|
| telephone booth gonna comb out love, gonna
|
| comb out hate gonna get me a new look and I can’t wait. |
| I took a lethal dosage
|
| of dope in my youth, bit the hook of Jesus
|
| — Oh! |
| The terrible truth. |
| I swallowed it hard for a damn good while,
|
| but now I’m combing my hair in a brand new style. |
| Combing my hair yeah.
|
| Combing my hair yeah. |
| Combing my hair yeah.
|
| Combing my hair in a brand new style. |
| I take a midnight stroll in a Love’s
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| supermarket. |
| I like passing the rows of candy
|
| for sale. |
| See the pale pretty girls in the magazines? |
| Smiling at me like they
|
| know what I mean. |
| You take your candy dandy,
|
| your cheap girls — ruthless! |
| Soul suckers all gonna end up toothless!
|
| Gumming the truth of life’s discount aisle. |
| Me I’m
|
| combing my hair in a brand new style.
|
| He used a blue hair comb with a busted tooth to comb out the tangles of his
|
| messed up youth. |
| Returning in glory to the scene of his trial, he was combing
|
| his hair in a brand new style. |
| Yeah the
|
| sorry story of his assorted crimes — his tribulations, his suffering mind all
|
| wiped clean and left miles behind. |
| See him
|
| prowling the street? |
| He got the mojo smile. |
| He’s combing his hair in a brand
|
| new style.
|
| I don’t want no hoodoos, no
|
| voodoo gurus, no spooked out priesty-beasty, no strippers with pasties,
|
| self-professed saviors of my soul, no low-down
|
| top-secret CIA moles, no crackpot psychopathic behavior specialists,
|
| no shriners, no shiners, no decisive moment
|
| existentialists, that’s right, no vegetable, no mineral, no institution gonna
|
| disrupt the constitution of my ingenious
|
| hairdo solution — see I got my sly pomade, my jelly in a jar! |
| Now don’t you
|
| mistake me for no movie star, 'cause I’m just
|
| a humble jumble of God’s crooked smile. |
| Did you check out my hair in the brand
|
| new style? |