| You play guitar for perfect strangers
|
| You write some words they try to sell
|
| And then you sing these things in public sometimes not very well
|
| You get paid to go to parties
|
| Drinking colors… talking trash…
|
| You get laid because you’re 'arty'
|
| And you wonder why it never lasts
|
| Maybe these are wonders… more than we may know
|
| Well I hate to steal your thunder
|
| You ain’t nothing special
|
| You’re no more celestial than anyone else
|
| As far as I can tell
|
| Call it mythology, we see what we want to see
|
| And everyone wants their distant dreams
|
| So sure enough they want your picture
|
| And your deepest point of view
|
| Well you should know you’re not that pretty
|
| And you haven’t got a clue
|
| But how you love the adoration
|
| You believe your 'in-house' press
|
| And half the critics always hate you
|
| So you get horribly depressed
|
| Maybe these are wonders, more than we may know
|
| Well, I hate to steal your thunder
|
| And I am the snake who bites his own tail |