The Stars of Open Mic

Taking your life every night you get up on stage

Making poets and pianists at the end of the page

You’re a princess with an entourage

Of mechanic men

They never deal right

Because you never feel right

You always make ‘em pay

They never deal right

Because you never feel right

You always make ‘em pay

 

Have you and him been jotting books down of your confessions?

Don’t you know such titles only lead to depressions?

In his black top hat and mask you investigated

He was intoxicated

And now he’s Laureate for the better half of NorCal

He was intoxicated

And now he dreams up Orwell

 

 

The stars of Open Mic you are

The stars of Open Mic you are

The stars of Open Mic are beautiful people

 

Could I paint a piece for you now that you’re retro?

About the two celebrity muses you’ve got in ut’ro

You only met them so that you could wear the paparazzi bear

And be the heiress to coverage’s caress

Could I write a requiem for you now that you’re dead?

You went to florists, made tens of forests, and gave Venus head

She never needed anyone to gobble up the mic
She had no dislike, but that geeky flytrap didn’t like her sleaze rap

But that geeky flytrap didn’t want her knees wrapped.

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