Cellphonia in F Flat
A chamber piece for two sulks and a soda
He yawns, his head propped up against a wall
Of head-stained, head-banged green-fluorescent blocks
In the back of the room, in Marlboro Country
Reposing in sad, sullen insolence
Furtively strumming a silent keypad
Flinging his unique existential angst
Into cool, pure, plasticized electrons
And out into the post-Dairy Queen night
Where there’s real life, man, not these books and stuff,
Real life; you wouldn’t understand. I’m me
And you don’t know who I am, man. I am:
An inspirational singer-songwriter
An artist, a great soul misunderstood
Raging against a machine that isn’t there
An angry Romantic on government grants
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