Underbite - Protest The Hero

unimportant, and I’m about to mimic some image of a rock and roll

singer I have under lock and key.

Without the faintest hint of irony that

I’m flashing my pearly whites to sustain my mediocrity.

So is everyone

having a good time tonight?

Good, I’m glad (I couldn’t actually care

less).

You guys are the best crowd that we’ve ever seen, seen with

these old dead eyes.

Blind to the stage or even my own lies.

So hey

ho, let’s go.

Let’s start this contemptible «rock» show.

Blinding lights

to hide the hand up our ass in this puppet-sock show.

Two sewn on

eyes, repurposed and made new, torn from an aging suit for a sense

of déjà vu.

Thumb underbite.

I bite my fucking thumb, and hope you

catch a thread, and slowly come undone.

An illusion seldom spoken.

An

understanding between you and I that the ground that you stand on

is somehow less than mine.

An allusion to a broken home, left on the

street and chilled to the bone.

So hey, we still feeling good?

Now you

comprehend our complex relationship — consumer/consumed.

You’re

just some stupid kid and I’m a megalomaniac.

Here comes that tortured

artist now to sing of his despair.

Shedding defenses for an honest

creation.

Placing yourself in the stocks on the strap.

You’re disgracing

your effort by conforming to textbook performance of music to fill in

the gaps, and it’s bullshit.

It’s bullshit.

Be honest, this can’t be what you

wanted, if what you write about means anything to you.

Rather than

pure vanity, people might connect with sincerity.

Don’t just pray the next

generation learns from our mistakes.

Let’s not repackage the same old

performance.

Original content is so much more rewarding.

I know that

it might be quite cliché, but if all the world is in fact a stage, then this

stage—this here goddamn stage—might just be all the world.