(Picture from www.telegraph.co.uk)
I see from the window
that he’s here
Gracing the old neighborhood,
giving us a chance to huff on his fame glow.
He’s rich and famous and just so well-dressed,
no surprise there
An army of stylists, agents, publicists, and personal trainers can get you—
Oh my god, is he wearing a sweater vest?
I’d say I’m not jealous,
but that’d be a lie
I’m tired of saving ever time just to buy some flowers while
He can, without a concern, buy some girl a pelisse.
He had the talent, there’s no doubt that’s true.
But I’ve always been smart, nice, and responsible
and that’s gotten me nowhere.
Aren’t I entitled to a contract that can change everything too?
I can’t spit rhyme or verse
I’ve just got my brain and my will
And hopefully, some day, a little bit of luck.
So I can earn my keep, before I take that final ride in a hearse
The bottom line is this:
We grew up the same, broke the same laws,
but now he’s a star
and everyday I sink ever closer to the abyss.
When he comes back here
to smile and wave and preach the gospel of hard work
He ignores us, the ones left behind, and falls for his own narrative
without a single quaere.
I don’t want much
a moment on stage
a chance to provide for my family
and to buy a great hutch.
You see, it’s all very simple to me
No limos, no models, no mansions
Not designer drugs or posing for pictures
I just want to escape here for a place with sights to see
a housing association fee
and maybe a tree