Critique (With Exceptions)

He sits at home, he's all alone
The flame of youth gone
He tried, he failed, he couldn't do
What you've done
No sense of humour, forcing a smile
Never a good word to make life worthwhile

He digs the trench, his poison pen
Writes off the music
He's come to bury you with words
That show he means it
No sense of humour, forcing a smile
State judge and jury, fixing your trial

Trade paper writers, T.V. blind
Ice-cold reviewing
Maybe the truth is that they don't know
What you're doing
No sense of humour, forcing a smile
No way of feeling what's on their minds

The music's stopped, the cartridge lifted
From his customer
His scrapbook bulging
Full of previous encounters
No sense of humour, forcing a smile
No sense of humour