| You never lived in the streets
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| Though you wish you had
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| Not enough talent to play a guitar
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| You failed as an artist 'cause you lacked the confidence
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| Now you’re a critic and you’re at the top
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| (The top of what?)
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| You don’t believe what you write
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| You’re an imposter; |
| you don’t, don’t, don’t
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| Believe what you write
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| You can’t get used to the fact that you ain’t a kid
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| You like to think that you speak for them all
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| You’d cut off your nose if you thought it
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| Would make you hip
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| It drives you crazy you can’t be a star
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| (Oh, ain’t that tough!)
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| You don’t believe what you write
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| (You're an imposter), you don’t believe what you write
|
| (You're an imposter), you don’t believe what you write
|
| (You're an imposter), you don’t, don’t, don’t
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| Believe what you write
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| You take the credit while others do all the work
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| You like to think you discovered them first
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| But we all know you moved in after it was safe
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| That way, you could never get hurt
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| (You like to play God!)
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| You don’t believe what you write
|
| (You're an imposter), you don’t believe what you write
|
| (You're an imposter), you don’t believe what you write
|
| (You're an imposter), you don’t, don’t, don’t
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| Believe what you write
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| You’re just a critic; |
| we know why you drink so much
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| Jealousy slowly consuming your gut
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| The streets that you never knew are just
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| Where they’ve always been
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| Your head is firmly lodged way up your butt
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| (Where it belongs) |