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By coujeaux Date: 2003 May 11 Comment on this Work [[2003.05.11.10.42.27044]] |
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Head's down but volume's up; his angst draws reverberating feedback from the crowd, What he thinks is all the rage, like he's taken pages from your life and screams it loud. Strike chords, baby, strum the guitar and sing about an ordinary life you'll never know, Must be such torture to stand in front of thousands of rabid fans and put on your show. Rock star life tears apart lesser men; if you capture the agony it becomes a smash hit, Wonder if anyone realizes how empty it is being so adored, does it impact you one bit? Part of the aesthetic of leather pants and liquor binges is the frontman, sullen on stage, Eyes closed to reality, oblivious to the rhythm section, top of lungs, proclaim him sage. Six-string heroes in front of a microphone, melodic at times, the kids can't get enough, Nor can he of the narcotic sympathy or that throwaway groupie; man, times are tough. See how the poet stumbles when his fix is needed, or the solo when everyone joins in, Tell me about the band of merry men, because they just destroyed a hotel room again. He's a gunslinger, toting his weapon in wilds of stadiums, slayed audiences everywhere, Then flip the newspaper over tomorrow morning and he's overdosed on devil may care. Nothing as tragic as some decaying genius ending himself with the trappings of success, While we forget to mourn an incognito citizen who couldn't sing or seemed to mean less. Here's to the good times; have another toke and pen your miseries, do I hear hell yeah? Hold up your lighters and shed tears for another fallen hero; here's my tribute: wah wah. |