Lyrics: Joel Wilson
Music: Joel Wilson
Male psyche, big Lebowski
Piss on a rug, you never had the house key
Try vulnerability, try consent
I’ve never been too cool to cry with friends
Rod Powell, Ross Spencer
I found, my lost temper
Why this conquest, life as a contest?
All bets off if you die in a bomb fest
Islanders weep and they’re wiped off the map
No silence or sleep when you’re fighting off attacks
Of the pipeline man camp hush-hush killings
Expelled the shaman, high on gold rush feelings
You can be masculine and not toxic, bro
There’s a pathogen, that neo-Nazi glow
But are we advocates of Mr Darcy? no
Cuz we’re battling the orthodoxy, yo
Be masculine, but not toxic, bro
There’s a pathogen, that neo-Nazi glow
But are we advocates of Mr Darcy? no
Cuz we’re battling the orthodoxy, yo
But it’s on and on with the programme
Got turned on by a slow jam
Thinking we’re Don Juan, oh damn
But it’s on and on with the programme
Got turned on by a slow jam
Thinking we’re Don Juan, oh damn
Young male ego, listless, ASMR
Lulling self to sleep
Scratching notches on bedposts
Devil-on-shoulder whispers in ear til head bloats
Echoing with crass chat-up lines and sex jokes
Aging heart-throb with a beer gut and a Beemer
Peacock in high-octane
Arm-wrestling while chirpsing the barmaid
Deading any doubt boy’s still got game
Swinging dicks like conkers
Knew the playground routine
Like the back of his hand
Piss around property and move to the next one
Having inserted the flag in the sand
Til it sinks
On account that his attitude stinks
A long list of his flaws
Gripped in his jaws stuck
Struggling to catch forty winks
Be masculine, but not toxic, bro
There’s a pathogen, that neo-Nazi glow
But are we advocates of Mr Darcy? no
Cuz we’re battling the orthodoxy, yo
Be masculine, but not toxic, bro
There’s a pathogen, that neo-Nazi glow
But are we advocates of Mr Darcy? no
Cuz we’re battling the orthodoxy, yo
But it’s on and on with the programme
Got turned on by a slow jam
Thinking we’re Don Juan, oh damn
But it’s on and on with the programme
Got turned on by a slow jam
Thinking we’re Don Juan, oh damn