by Jay Sizemore
In the time of auto-tune I was a singer,
callused fingertips with a beat-up six stringer,
strumming in the reverb, slap back twang,
swivel ankle shoes and a mountain of cocaine.
I keep my clothes on when I fuck,
strobe light hypnotist, don’t have to show my junk,
I’m a runaway truck – my beat cut the brake line,
making maggots sick on my body full of red wine.
My microphone’s a dagger you would put in my back
chasing echoes round the dark like a rabid fruit bat,
I’m the sun and the moon rolled under the rug,
paint the sky plaid and give the stars more drugs.
It’ll never be enough, once your tolerance is up,
a Humvee for a liver and a helmet for a cup,
that scent of success like a meat-packing plant,
new faces in the front, take the old out the back.
It’s all vanilla, what they’ll put in your spoon,
a sugar sweet sap Taylor Swift cookie cutter cocoon,
imagine a world with no rough edges round the heart,
computers writing songs and the artists in the trailer park.
Know what I’m sayin?