This is not a love song… it’s a moisture crisis in funk form.

Built on slap bass so groovy it could cause chafing, crispy-clean funk guitar licks, and vocoder whispers that feel like they’re leaning in way too close, “Dry Hands – Wet Pants” is a playful, slightly naughty ode to an unusual romance trigger.

For the uninitiated:
It’s winter. He walks in with frost on his coat, hands as parched as a desert sunrise, and you suddenly forget your own name. By the time the slap bass drops, you’re dancing, laughing, and wondering how we got here — and whether we should tell anyone.

Perfect for:
🪩 Funk parties where nobody asks too many questions
🧴 People who refuse to buy hand lotion
💦 Dancefloors where the air is dry but the vibe is damp

Warning: May cause involuntary hip thrusting and conversations you’ll have to explain later.

Lyrics:

He walks in, winter coat, frost on the glass
Paper skin, like he’s straight from a desert past
No lotion, no shine, just the grit and the grain
Every finger tells a story of drought and no rain

I don’t care for diamonds, don’t care for gold
Give me that rough touch, I lose control
From the palms to the tips, every inch is dry
I’m already gone and I don’t know why

🎵 Dry hands – wet pants
It’s a strange romance
Dry hands – wet pants
And I can’t resist that chance
Dry hands – wet pants
Every brush ignites the dance
Dry hands – wet pants
You don’t even know what you’ve done 🎵

Sawdust scent and a paper-cut kiss
Rough enough to make me reminisce
Of schoolyard crushes and chalkboard days
Now you’re here and I’m set ablaze

Don’t give me silk, don’t give me cream
It’s the raw, dry heat that fuels my dream
And every handshake is a guilty sin
Like a storm just waiting to begin

🎵 Dry hands – wet pants
It’s a strange romance
Dry hands – wet pants
And I can’t resist that chance
Dry hands – wet pants
Every brush ignites the dance
Dry hands – wet pants
You don’t even know what you’ve done 🎵

No need for water, no need for rain
Let me feel that desert again
My heart’s a faucet, my knees go weak
When your grip is coarse, I can’t even speak

🎵 Dry hands – wet pants (oh-oh-oh)
Dry hands – wet pants (yeah-yeah-yeah)
Every touch, every glance
It’s dry hands… wet pants 🎵

Dry Hands – Wet Pants

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