I know, man, it's like I'm half of a whole man Gotta get back on the program
Slow man, looking for a slow woman I'm a slow man, looking for a slow woman Who don't care that I'm old looking
Or got my soul token back Where the fallen angels land The back of a stranger's hand
Familiarity's the first thing to go
There's a photo that you're staring at And you can't quite place The face that is staring back
Maybe they're just fading so fast
That you can't keep up with it Of the Grand Prix hustlers
If you can't keep up to speed Then your man needs the oven mitts
I can't be the judge of it 'Cause they reached for some answers And got trampled by the stampede
Of know-it-all homogeneous types And the parents burn the books I write
I was either soul searching Or just looking for fights
The dice didn't roll right All my jobs were odd ones My problems had bold type
Set off epileptic seizures
Ain't what I set my sights on
Who don't mind my home cooking
I'm no good when I'm a bad, bad man That it appears to be my last stand That it appears to be a photo
That it appears to be my last stand And I'm gonna dance so slow That it looks like a photo
Truth be told, it takes more Than having a picture taken For you to lose your soul