He got no flat-top, he comb, moussin’ up dome tree,
he move north of eyeballs, he scoff: “No need rollers!”
He got hair, pounds, grown with ease,
got to be a comber or it swoop to his knees.

His hair got smooth shine, he got close-crammed rootballs,
he got running fingers through his kera[tin] cloaker,
he say, “I got slew to ’do, see!
I think I won’t gel, dude, ’cause I like it gunk-free.”

Comb moussed tresses. He vow: “No surcease.”

He shag products shun, he got mullet-cut-moot,
he not grow-mo’ sideburns, he not shiny lacquer,
he cut neat now with no surcease,
he go in barberchair: scissors-wield on fur piece.

Combed moussed tresses and wow! awesome fleece.
Nice!

He rollers? No, sir. He got curly spawning,
need no gummy topper, no rugged chrome-dome fitter.
He say, “Got a bunch clumped, plumped to please.
It won’t be goo-lookin’, ’cause I depart from grease.”

Comb moussed tresses. He vow: “No to grease!”

Comb moussed tresses, yeah.
Comb smooth tresses, yeah.
Comb caresses hair.