You play guitar for perfect strangers

You write some words they try to sell

And then you sing these things in public sometimes not very well

You get paid to go to parties

Drinking colors...talking trash...

You get laid because you're 'arty'

And you wonder why it never lasts



Maybe these are wonders...more than we may know

Well I hate to steal your thunder

You ain't nothing special

You're no more celestial than anyone else

As far as I can tell

Call it mythology, we see what we want to see

And everyone wants their distant dreams



So sure enough they want your picture

And your deepest point of view

Well you should know you're not that pretty

And you haven't got a clue

But how you love the adoration

You believe your 'in-house' press

And half the critics always hate you

So you get horribly depressed

Maybe these are wonders, more than we may know

Well, I hate to steal your thunder



And I am the snake who bites his own tail