The narrator is the old goat. He just woke up. He packs a fat oom paul to jib and make home-baked perfume. You know how he feels... sooooooo good... like his hooves are made of pure cocoa. He's straight up jibbin'. Now what? The kitchen. He heads downstairs, reheats yesterday's coffee, and sits there in his pajamas sipping the brew. It's doing the job and everything's comfy. His woman walks in. She's fixing up her hair in some silly hipster fashion. But he's digging it. Uh oh. She's riled up about the plumbing again. "Those damn plumbers didn't fix the faucet!" Her whining is killing his buzz. All he's concerned with right now is her boobs. He wonders, "Why doesn't this hermit-woman play with bows and arrows no more? Where's the passion?" Yeah, she's right at home in this quiet domestic life. But he knew her when she was a freak. They'd get so crazy in his little apartment playing cowboys and Indians. When the futon started knocking against the wall she would hush him for the sake of the neighbors. Now they've got this nice quiet life. But he's not down with it. He wistfully stares out the window at their dewy lawn. Man, they had some wild times... A century passes and he snaps out of it. He looks back at her and thinks about how she still makes him want to dance like an invalid. But she's still bitchin' about the plumbers. He wants her to get worked up over him, not the plumbers! She idly touches her chest and he loses it. He wants her to dominate him right there on the kitchen floor. His eye is huge now. He's flying high but he'd let her burn his wings right off. C'mon hermit...
The narrator is the old goat. He just woke up. He packs a fat oom paul to jib and make home-baked perfume. You know how he feels... sooooooo good... like his hooves are made of pure cocoa. He's straight up jibbin'. Now what? The kitchen. He heads downstairs, reheats yesterday's coffee, and sits there in his pajamas sipping the brew. It's doing the job and everything's comfy. His woman walks in. She's fixing up her hair in some silly hipster fashion. But he's digging it. Uh oh. She's riled up about the plumbing again. "Those damn plumbers didn't fix the faucet!" Her whining is killing his buzz. All he's concerned with right now is her boobs. He wonders, "Why doesn't this hermit-woman play with bows and arrows no more? Where's the passion?" Yeah, she's right at home in this quiet domestic life. But he knew her when she was a freak. They'd get so crazy in his little apartment playing cowboys and Indians. When the futon started knocking against the wall she would hush him for the sake of the neighbors. Now they've got this nice quiet life. But he's not down with it. He wistfully stares out the window at their dewy lawn. Man, they had some wild times... A century passes and he snaps out of it. He looks back at her and thinks about how she still makes him want to dance like an invalid. But she's still bitchin' about the plumbers. He wants her to get worked up over him, not the plumbers! She idly touches her chest and he loses it. He wants her to dominate him right there on the kitchen floor. His eye is huge now. He's flying high but he'd let her burn his wings right off. C'mon hermit...