The troubled rock star pours out his heart,
How he’s suffered for his art
The unwilling victim of every tart
Who set eyes on having a part
A dime store cashier before his fame
He no longer wants the game
Tired of playing the same old song
He doesn’t know where it went wrong
The 3 chord anthems that he wrote
No longer float his sinking boat
He doesn’t miss his youthful curls
The tours, the pools, or the girls
He craves a simple quiet life
With a youngish, caring wife
Perhaps a farm in the rural hills
Away from spliffs and coke and pills
But you can bet your bottom dollar
That a comeback album will surely follow
When the royalties are running thin
His CDs in the remainder bin
He’ll be back just wait and see
Except that now it’ll be on daytime TV
Talking to Eamonn, Piers et al
About his new stuff, his new normal
A mellow thoughtful cleaner sound
Rooted in his new found ground
They’ll politely hear him out
Before they mention that drinking bout
In a seedy Parisian brothel bar
Before he crashed the drummer’s car
After the hotel trashing in Tokyo
Into the gambling den in old Soho
He’ll laugh to hear these trotted out
Those stories booze had blotted out
He’ll disown those bad boy years
Comparisons with Britney Spears
Trying not to flip his lid
He wonders “who am I trying to kid?”
Stephen A. Roberts
Image : Pixabay - kalhh
