| I’m looking with disgust
|
| Some of them you can’t trust
|
| They wanna be like Jesus
|
| And hang upon a cross
|
| They offer mediocrity
|
| From which I can find no sanctuary
|
| Untouchable beings
|
| Communicating media trickery
|
| All day long
|
| On my radio
|
| I hear that song
|
| Playing like a marathon
|
| Just one more time
|
| So I can really dig it
|
| In six months time
|
| Who the fucking hell made it
|
| They’re dreaming of a scheme
|
| And a dance routine
|
| Instigating a plan
|
| Like a PR scam
|
| Collecting acollades
|
| From other phonies and fakes
|
| Beam me up scotty
|
| Before it is too late
|
| So I got what I got
|
| Now I’m bored out of my nut
|
| They almost made my mind
|
| Into a dry roasted
|
| Monkey for brains
|
| They’re making me insane
|
| Like grouse in a field
|
| They’re treating me like game
|
| Hail to the wonder
|
| New fodder for a crass media
|
| Bullshit on the pages
|
| Of every newspaper
|
| Boxed and packaged
|
| Like an oven ready meal
|
| I’m the donkey chasing the carrot
|
| To turn that wheel of fortune
|
| A tune force fed
|
| With a wooden spoon
|
| I’m hoping to get an autographed
|
| Picture real soon
|
| They’re chimps for their pimps
|
| And they’re putting my head in a vice
|
| I don’t need to take a trip
|
| Down to sour price
|
| To understand the meanings
|
| Of under the counter dealings
|
| Shit rising high busting up thro'
|
| The ceiling
|
| I don’t wanna make new friends
|
| On the telephone
|
| I just wanna fuck the person
|
| Holding the microphone
|
| Intended desire
|
| Was what they really meant
|
| I should have known that
|
| Before my money was spent
|
| Just like a puppet
|
| Fist fucked in ya butt
|
| You claim you’re dope
|
| Like an uncut drug
|
| I really dig you clothes
|
| And you’re remixed versions
|
| You’re nothing but a pro
|
| To the butt-fucking system |