Doesn't have a problem with drugs, He's fine that his mates have tattoos, But he reckon's they'll rue them, But he hates it when the music's too loud, He tends not to go to rock concerts, 'Cause he can't stand the crowd, And all he's ever wanted to be Is a rock star on RAGE or MTV, But he knows that it's not very likely, Now that he's thirty he knows that...
He'll keep writing songs the world will never hear, And though the won't be heard He'll keep on writing, oh yeah, He'll keep on trying to get there, But you see the problem is He always thought he'd be a star, But he learnt piano instead of guitar, Which in the nineties didn't get you very far, So while the other kids were learning Stairway He was the piano to their forte, But he was convinced one day He'd rock their fucking arses, Or be an icon for the disenfranchised masses, Grow his hair long and rebel against the state, But for now that'd have to wait, 'Cause he's running late for his morning classes.
He'll keep playing gigs that no-one knows about, And though it sounds absurd He'll just keep playing, oh yeah, But you see the problem is There's not much depth in what he's singing, He's a victim of his upper-middle class upbringing, So he can't write about the 'hood, or bling-bling, So he sits and imagines his girlfriend is dead To try and find some angst in his middle class head, But he's always fine at half past nine when he goes to bed, He hasn't spent a single night in prison, He has no issues with nutrition, He has no drinkning problem and no drug addiction Unless you count the drugs they put in chicken, Marijuana always tends to make him cough, He doesn't look good with his t-shirt off, And when he tries to act tough, you can tell he's tricking.
While his mates all stay out late, Popping pills and havin fun, He stays home and showers, And gets a good eight hours, He gets his thrills from his morning run, While his mates all go on dates, Taking speed and drinking cans of Beam, And curls up with a book, And the girl he's had since he was seventeen