Poor Artists

Lyrics

Imprisoned in the cafe, or busking in the alleyway (The machine needs oil, but blood will do just fine.) Eyes too tired to keep awake, fingers cut too fierce to pray (I'll make sure they take yours so that they might not take mine.) Rinse, repeat and bow down, until hope washes clean off skin (It's nothing personal – But then, that's such a shame.) Play the role you're given and roll the dice they weighted again (We're all NPCs in some businessman's game.) We fight. We try We strive to reach greater heights We yearn to be actualised And instead, we roll on and on and on and on, till the sun dies Until we finally find someone, somewhere, somehow seeing our eyes' lost light And we hear them say: "Say cheese. Wash feet And when they kick, grit your teeth Besides, you look so good in red And the audience loves you half dead They're the prey. You're the bait So, lie down and wait Seduce the working class and pull their gaze away The wolves have outsourced the chase And you'll do well to remember your - Stop crying, there's a time and a - Hell is more kind of a place." Look beyond the hand that feeds; magic tricks are quick to deceive (The machine's all fucked. There's this bright sludge in the ducts.) They show that which you think you need – what else don't they want you to see? (The cogs are turning slow. The cattle's causing a fuss.) Riot! Rage! Dye brushes red. Paint bullet holes across their chests (They've all been diseased with this thing we don't know.) Restore that which you thought had left. Bring to life the inspired dead (Their souls have been retrieved. They say they're calling it 'hope.') It's true. It's known They loathe to see humans being The artist can not be free - So what does that make me? They commoditised ecstasy And contentedness costs extra fees And soon, they'll come after me But I will not give up my next beat I'll writhe. I'll scream And when I'm done, I'll bare my teeth Your rules will not keep me down For to truly smile, you must first master the frown I'll write. I'll sing It's a fickle thing, but I'll draw my own damn lines and sit humbly between I'd rather be skint and free, than well off with a gun at my cheek