Less of a singer, you are more   More of a prostitute   With aspirations for a life of sex and drug abuse   When did the music turn into a beauty pageant   Lately my sense of pride has been chronically absent domesticate   So much for combat   My worst habits are mounting a comback   Dollars and pence, cubic or metric   You can sit down but the chairs are electric   Lay in the street, embrace the gutter   It's easier than working towards something   Better pull on my boots, run through the back door   Should have been more careful what I wished for   Less of an artist, you are more   More of a xerox machine   You sit tracing the pages of juxtapoz magazine   When did the music turn into a beauty pageant   I've become a participant in something I once stood against   I should have never given birth to this monster   From all this same I'd like to hide my head in the ground