The bottom line is men disgust me
With their foolish scoffs and backwards glances
Impotent retentive sticklers
Excessive punching
Looking for the perfect match I'd found myself
Fumbling in a backseat with some effeminate anarcho-rocker
Until I found I was allergic to his lipstick
But by that time he had let me know that I was too macho for him anyway
There's no such creature as the so-called '90s man
It's a myth, a lie, an utter fabrication
Every beach boy's waking dream is pornographic gluttony
No holds barred, seven a start
Well hung, well hung