Well? Ain't it? You got yourself all gussied up, and that smirk looks good on you. Give em what they want. It's a cheap pop tune, but the beat is catchy. I'm not talking about music. I'm talking about that corner of the room you like to stare at, eyes blurring into focus. I'm talking about that way you cock your hip to the side like you got a six gun there. It's no skin off my ass, and I probably should leave it alone, but I can't help but feel scorn for a clone.
Let's all pretend we're what we want to be. I want to be the one who makes the world whirl, eyes open to the fire. You? It's all about the yes-men, the yes-women. They are programmable, automatonic disasters. I have no use for them. I've always been more intrigued by the ones who say 'no'.
It's just so doggone simple, but you don't get it. I won't be your huckleberry. You can ride this train alone 'cause I don't like where it's going. I don't like the scenery and I don't enjoy the company. I'll settle my limbs across the tracks and wait for the first glimpse of pure white bone.
Your supposition and superstition glow like magma. You stare at the customers who come by, wondering which ones will buy the lie. Not me. I like honesty.
But it was lovely wasn't it? It's almost over now, so make sure you're taking notes. You think I'm arrogant? Not much. Sometimes, I reckon. Sometimes I just tell it like I see it, and I see a sack of insecure bullshit. So, I'm calling it. Heads or tails?
Wouldn't it be great to just get on the horses and joust. To get in the arena with the lions. To actually live something worthwhile and true instead of hiding behind these good folks you bow down to...the ones you mock once they're out of earshot. They came for a show. Sell it to them. I'll be behind the wagon whittling this stick.
I see you when I close my eyes, adjustments made for accuracy's sake. The pretty face is gone, replaced by yellowed, sallow mailbox coupons. It doesn't matter as long as you can keep telling yourself that you're important. And as long as they believe it. It don't matter a warm shit what I think.
It is pretty, though. The long, drawn out wail that escapes your falling lips. The realization that the world's all bumpy and you tried to make it flat. The train's slowing down, but you won't jump off. I know you well enough to know that. You'll prop it all up with false bravado and popsicle sticks and, somehow, you'll still hook a few.
I wonder what they'll say at your funeral. Probably a bunch of nice stuff. Vacant platitudes and fluff. Don't worry, I'll be there to set the record straight. I ain't proud of it, but I can't wait.