I don't have to read between the lines to seek the truth
I don't have to sit and ponder birth and life and death
I could write a song that I could sing to you again
And play it on the radio for now and ever more
I could write a song with all my shaky fingertips
I could drip my song from all your sweaty painted lips
I could see myself on TV, I'm accepting the award
I could see you bowing to me, I'm your master, I'm your lord
And I'm a sellout!
We're just striking poses in a silly little game
Between the hipsters and the poets and the prophets and the lame
While the trash heaps of the world fill with records and CDs
In a vain attempt to make some sort of mark on history
And the words I write are meaningless they're lyrics to a song
When the people sing them back to me they sing along all wrong
Well I've got a microphone but I've got nothing good to say
But if I stand on this stage long enough I'll probably get laid
I'm a sellout!