Art Boy

I want an art boy
With nasty old clothes
Shaggy supreme
Like he could find me a ghost

I want his hands paint-splattered
Broken colored pencils on his floor
I bet he just fucked his model
Before he walked me through the door

I feel intimidated
By the things that he says
He doesn't use big words
But he uses big theories
And I'm weary of his hands
When they reach across to me

Peel back my arithmetic
And see my writing
Judge how deep

It's not ideal for him to feel like he does
When we fuck
Cause I can make him happy
And it makes his paintings suck

I like to play with his shaggy supreme
And dream that he can paint me
Paint my body
Paint my dick
Paint my top hat
Paint my tricks

I can't tell the paint from the skin
From the tattoos from the trash
He rubs up on me all day
Like a kitten wants to play with me
And interrupt my theories

He's my art boy
He gives me art
I give him other stuff

Fair trade, I think

As long as he tells me
What he's thinking
What he thinks