That’s the war you’re waging,
Reduce the visible signs of ageing.
Sell the part you’re playing
To be real life.
So tired of doing this;
So empty and purposeless.
Now downwardly I spin.
How cowardly I’ve been.
In the future, you’ll be dead,
Your cryogenically frozen head
Melted in unseasonable weather;
A catastrophic administrative error.
So tired of being this;
So lined and defeated.
Now outwardly I grin.
How dishonest I’ve been.
Ghost write it in instead of course.
My by-line is on your story
And it needs an edit.
Indie pop doesn’t pay the bills,
Solo careers are for conceited individuals.
I feel the options drying up.
The contract to which I am a signatory
Says every year you’ve got to lose a little more dignity.
I’m in the band but you may not have heard of me.
Wrestling with the decommissioned runway ban;
Talk to the polio-withered hand;
But stay out of my face because you’re damaging my brand
And we all bought death on the instalment plan.
supported by 4 fans who also own “The visible signs of ageing”
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