I was living on the hill

By the water tower and hiking trails

And when the big one hit I'd have a seat

To watch masters abandon their dogs and dogs run free

Oh baby, it's time to leave

Take the van and the hearse down to New Orleans

Leave under the gaze of the billboard queens

Five-foot chicks with parted lips selling sweatshop jeans



These L.A. phonies and their bullshit bands

That sound like dollar signs and Amy Grant

So reads the pulled quote from my last cover piece

Entitled "The Oldest Man in Folk Rock Speaks”

You can hear it all over the airwaves

The manufactured gasp of the final days

Someone should tell them ‘bout the time that they don't have

To praise the glorious future and the hopeless past



A few things the songwriter needs

Arrows of Love, a mask of Tragedy

But if you want ecstasy or birth control

Just run the tap until the water's cold

Anything else you can get online

A creation myth or a .45

You're going to need one or the other to survive

Where only the armed or the funny make it out alive



Mara taunts me 'neath the tree

She's like, "Oh great, that's just what we all need

Another white guy in 2017

Who takes himself so goddamn seriously."

She's not far off, the strange thing is

That's pretty much what I thought when I started this

It took me my whole life to learn to the play the G

But the role of Oedipus was a total breeze



Still I dreamt of garnering all rave reviews

Just believably a little north of God's own truth

He's a national treasure now, and here's the proof

In the form of his major label debut

A little less human with each release

Closing the gap between the mask and me

I swear I'll never do this, but is it okay?

Don't want to be that guy but it's my birthday

If everything ends with the photo then I'm on my way



Ohhh-ho-o-oh oh-ho-ho-ho-oh



I watched my old gods all collapse

Were way more violent than my cartoon past

It's like my father said before he croaked

"Son, you're killing me, and that's all folks."

So why is it I'm so distraught

That what I'm selling is getting bought

At some point you just can't control

What people use your fake name for



So I never learned to play the lead guitar

I always more preferred the speaking parts

Besides there's always someone willing to

Fill up the spaces that I couldn't use

Nonetheless, I've been practicing my whole life

Washing dishes, playing drums, and getting by

Until I figured, if I'm here then I just might

Conceal my lack of skill here in the spotlights

Maya, the mother of illusions, a beard, and I



2000 years or so since Ovid taught

Night-blooming, teenage rosebuds, dirty talk

And I'm merely a minor fascination to

Manic virginal lust and college dudes

I'm beginning to begin to see the end

Of how it all goes down between me and them

Some 10-verse chorus-less diatribe

Plays as they all jump ship, "I used to like this guy

This new shit really kinda makes me wanna die"



Ohhh-ho-oh-oh oh-ho-ho-ho-oh

Ohhh-ho-oh-oh oh-ho-ho-ho-oh



My first memory of music's from

The time at JCPenney's with my mom

The watermelon candy I was choking on

Barbara screaming, "Someone help my son!"

I relive it most times the radio's on

That "tell me lies, sweet little white lies" song

That's when I first saw the comedy won't stop for

Even little boys dying in the department store



So we leave town in total silence

New Year's Day, it's 6 o'clock AM

I've never seen Sunset this abandoned

Reminds me predictably of the world's end

It'll be good to get more space

God knows what all these suckers paid

I can stop drinking and you can write your script

But what we both think now is...