Circa 1994?

Disregard almost everything that I've said so far,

Don't put much stock into the trite things I've said.

If we get right down to it, I better find new threads

Or the dream and inspiration will soon be dead.

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"He's an Alarmist!" some old bat shouts.

"But how did I do?" some kid wants to know.

They're not speaking to me (I believe),

But to a man with a painted face and a big old nose.

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There are certain obligations and responsibilities

That seem like too big of a deal,

But I recognize them and poke at them

And wonder about how I should feel.

Don't we all start one or two books in our lives

That we can never see to the end?

Is it so bad that mine reproduce over and over again

Until I have no energy left to spend?

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"Oh, wow, what a pathetic wretch," cries a guy in a suit.

"Brother, can you spare a buck?" some voice wants to know.

They're not speaking to me (I believe),

But to a man with a painted face and a big old nose.

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Meanwhile people depend upon each of us

To fulfill what they all think they believe.

It makes it kind of hard to get up,

Find the remote, and turn off the t.v.

Even this, I wonder, must be carefully said

As it's what they'll remember best.

A stupid metaphor, a lousy rhyme,

Will survive as my final test.

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"Good lord, what a jerk," cries the crowd on the street.

"Don't you remember me," they all want to know.

They're not speaking to me (I believe)

But to a man with a painted face and a big old nose.