They will say our names,
Remember the image we put forth,
Recall all the skewed media games,
But forget our hearts.
They'll still comment on the drugs,
The ones you didn't really take,
And all the dirty secrets we swept under rugs,
Ah the lives of the rich and famous.
The critics abound,
For every fan that celebrates with us,
There's someone who shouts 'what's that ugly sound?'
That's my guitar, asshole.
The magazines report us,
Tirelessly week after week,
Even when we don't make a fuss,
I happen to love the hot pink jeans.
We stand on the stage,
Mic in front of us,
This hit's all the rage
But they're missing the meaning.
I hate to sound cliché
But I miss that ol' time rock n' roll
Remember back in the day
When it was music not dollars?
I've played my last show
It breaks my heart to walk
But I have to say no
And stay true myself, my sound.
And it's been years
(I still frequent the tabloids; what no to do)
And the industry has actualized my fears,
The music has died.
©The Last Letter