I wish we had the talent to be in a proper band, the skill to go beyond this perfect
imitation and at least knock on the door of originality. Because this doesn’t feel quite
right. It is fake, just fool’s gold. Who will remember us for anything more than what
we are? Because we look and sound like them we get praise and adoration only
they should be receiving but don’t because they are gone and we are here partying
in their grave.
I wish I could be myself and not caught up in this charade. But I am just an actor
singing his lines, wearing his hair and clothes and mimicking his mannerisms. A
mindless marionette jerked here and there about the stage. It is our manager who
pulls the strings now. I used to but I lost my faith and cry in his unhearing ears. So
now I pray nightly to the brightest star for the blue fairy to come and do for me what
she did for Pinocchio.
The mindless monkeys go mad. Transported back to youthful exuberance they jump
about like thugs, ruining it for the youngsters who missed the real thing. Either way
they masturbate over memories or dreams of how it used to be, using this synthetic
bumph to get them there.
And you can always see the real fans doing what I wish I could do - walking out,
disgusted they ever came to this side show in a dirty and dingy pub.
imitation and at least knock on the door of originality. Because this doesn’t feel quite
right. It is fake, just fool’s gold. Who will remember us for anything more than what
we are? Because we look and sound like them we get praise and adoration only
they should be receiving but don’t because they are gone and we are here partying
in their grave.
I wish I could be myself and not caught up in this charade. But I am just an actor
singing his lines, wearing his hair and clothes and mimicking his mannerisms. A
mindless marionette jerked here and there about the stage. It is our manager who
pulls the strings now. I used to but I lost my faith and cry in his unhearing ears. So
now I pray nightly to the brightest star for the blue fairy to come and do for me what
she did for Pinocchio.
The mindless monkeys go mad. Transported back to youthful exuberance they jump
about like thugs, ruining it for the youngsters who missed the real thing. Either way
they masturbate over memories or dreams of how it used to be, using this synthetic
bumph to get them there.
And you can always see the real fans doing what I wish I could do - walking out,
disgusted they ever came to this side show in a dirty and dingy pub.
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