this is how I lost the tournament with my face
hastily in a rush first thing in the morning
in the absence of a fogless mirror I held
seven blades in one hand on one giant cartridge
if this was a safety razor I found trouble
safely shaving my face hungover from a night
how should I say dancing between the satin sheets
of course Satan could do better at the nightclub
will I ever me her again God only knows
I can't keep wandering in and out of strange beds
left on my own I find a way to find trouble
or trouble seems to find me standing all alone
seemingly lost in thought a penny for your thoughts
this line I've heard dozens of times leads me to bed
to hustle the player works hard to earn his keep
his fair share of the game the herd thins pretty quick
even if he talks up enough women their beds
take forever to find sometimes only in dreams
only he imagines he knows all the angles
understands the other as opposite to him
really he needs to play it cool like Miles Davis
never directly face the crowd to turn around
and show only your back never show them your horn
maybe then he'll work less hard work smarter to pay
every mother fucker back in spades for doubting
nobody knows women better than this young man
tragic as it all sounds he thinks he's a genius
women seek the meaning to their lives when I stand
in contemplation of some inconceivable
thought a philosophy a system of ideas
honed like a samurai sword so sharp as to cut
men in half in any direction the blade cuts
yet leaving not a trace of blood across the blade
farcical you might say but here you would be wrong
and wanting to admit your mistake but you lack
certain character traits to efface the ego
even ordinary men can't face the mirror
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