Life got a new haircut,
A choice you could call rash,
Bleach and three fringes,
And a great big moustache.
Nothing can be done,
When nothing's in your hands.
Let the scissors come,
Rearrange the land.
Getting funny looks from,
People bustling by,
Flat caps on their heads,
Hiding what's inside.
Blocking out the sun,
A quiff to beat the band.
Let the razor come,
Rearrange
The land is bowling over,
Hiding from the rain
Of stray hairs falling,
Across the open plain.
Life looks very different,
As the barber lifts his comb,
And looking in the mirror,
Says "Aren't you glad we're not alone?"
Glad we're not alone.
Aren't you glad we're not alone,
Looking in the mirror.
