Less of a singer, you are more

More of a prostitute

With aspirations for a life of sex and drug abuse

When did the music turn into a beauty pageant

Lately my sense of pride has been chronically absent domesticate

Dollars and pence, cubic or metric

You can sit down but the chairs are electric

Lay in the street, embrace the gutter

It's easier than working towards something

Better pull on my boots, run through the back door

Should have been more careful what I wished for

Less of an artist, you are more

More of a xerox machine

You sit tracing the pages of juxtapoz magazine

When did the music turn into a beauty pageant

I should have never given birth to this monster

From all this same I'd like to hide my head in the ground