Music Boy

Hey music boy. Do you want to know? Tour poor. Tour cold. Tour mad. Pick out the band member you hate the most, and write songs with him. Soak in it. And no matter how much they cheer, have it in for them. Do it to them, not for them. And when the critics raise their flaccid wings, fire back with an alarming lack of restraint, and crush them because they are wrong. When they say you're done, you've only just begun. When the crowds thin, and the skin thins, when the lines hit your face, when the gray hair shows, don't dye it and hide. Don't deny it and liе. Be what you are: older now. You hеar them talk about keeping it real? Fuck you. We'll see how real you are, music boy, when your cash flow's stopped, and your band's been dropped, and it's back to the rancid halls you go. Where you're in front of hundreds, not thousands. And now it's just you and the music. The music: that is why you signed up, right? So the fucked-up club, small stage, bad lighting and crap PA should be paradise, right? Unless it's not enough. Unless it's too much. Fuck you. Either love it or leave it. The first decade is easy. The second decade hurts some. The third decade is where it gets good. They're all hoping you'll fuck up. So get the fat off your ass, get mad at the pain, and get out there.