Less of a singer, you are more More of a prostitute With aspirations for a life of sex and drug abuse When did the music turn into a beauty pageant Lately my sense of pride has been chronically absent domesticate So much for combat My worst habits are mounting a comeback Dollars and pence, cubic or metric You can sit down but the chairs are electric Lay in the street, embrace the gutter Its easier than working towards something Better pull on my boots, run through the back door Should have been more careful what I wished for Less of an artist, you are more more of a xerox machine You sit tracing the pages of juxtapoz magazine When did the music turn into a beauty pageant I've become a participant in something I stood against I should have never given birth to this monster From all this shame I'd like to hide my head in the ground
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