Got to sometimes feel like, oh my god, life’s so good.
I’m on the cover of a lot — a lot! — of magazines.
Note I don’t say all. But I’ve been practicing
my big TV grin and charming banter.
Interviewers, always follow-upping on the answers.
Prancers such as I lift heels up.
Get your people here, we’ll set some deals up.
But don’t fuss my pretty little with the chores.
I’m critically acclaimed and I’m never ignored.
Now, notice that none of that’s true.
Frontalot got inauthentic at you? What else is new?
What else to do but keep on seeming
like a celebration lyric could be anything redeeming?
I write the songs you can’t get out of your head
and my artistic accomplishments are often said
to soften dread in the hearts of the reviewers:
“another tour de force from the performer who inures
all listeners to the ravages of cynicism
with the pure and simple freshness of his syllogism.”
Listen, isn’t this the case: critical darlings
always are unbeloved of the masses; in the parlance
of the populace, they suck. And since I’m awful,
just an air gust that holds aloft the copter of the ROFL,
it’s obvious why I’m such a critic’s to-do.
But when Frontalot discusses it, is anything true?
And I quote, “His interrogation of failing to keep it real
disassembles the meaning inherent and then reveals
artifice itself to be integral to veracity.”
...part of a 5-star notice posted about the last CD.
I’m at capacity, I overflow with fronting.
(That was a good point once, but I fear it suffers blunting.)
Let me simply tell you something: the living is good
up on the top of the top-ten lists where I just stood.
In my fist, where the disc should be brandished like a trophy,
instead I’m holding onto the prize possession: self-loathing.
And you know life’s sweet if you can sing about that,
like I rolled nat 20, double damage on the track.