Throw my guitar down on the floor.
No one cares what I’ve got to say anymore.
I didn’t come here to be damned with faint praise.
I’ll write my masterpiece some other day.
Fuck everything, fuck me.
I’m repeating myself again.
Innovation, I leave to smarter men.
Pretty melodies don’t fall out of the air for me;
I’ve got to steal them from somewhere.
But it doesn’t matter what you do or how hard you try.
Now there’s nothing left for me to do except die.
When they cut you up they’ll tell you that it’s not going to hurt,
but they are not going to stop until they see you go to sleep in the dirt.
And there’ll be no more cigarettes, no more having sex,
no more drinking until you fall on the floor,
no more indie rock, just a ticking clock.
You have no time for that anymore.
You better watch where you run your mouth,
because you know what they’ll say to you.
They’ll say, Your life is over.
I insist you cease to exist.
You think you can come and go as you please?
You can’t quit, you’re fucking fired!
Your life is over.