same old song and dance

poor, poor Aerosmith, singing songs of old
never got enough popularity, always need that one
more nod of approval from a fan, a proof that your
life has indeed been spent at desk, your nose smudged
with the ink of your mass-produced ideas. the story
of my life, you may say. sing it again, Mr. Tyler,
just so you can hum through the same old words
in the chorus, over and over, why do they bother
repeating it four times, five times, six times more
(just another one and I might understand your idea,
drilled into my head, so I can share your omnipotence)
the same old story, same old song and dance, and the
chorus wedged Swiss Cheese-like between two stanzas
full of holes that dead end in the grainy bread of
my sandwich. It's a damn good thing, then,
that I fancy myself a poet and not a lyricist.