i bet if i gave you a staircase, you'd opt for the debonair and make your grand entrance instead of choosing the fun times we had sliding down the banister because that's the kind of person you are now – classy and uptight. (the worst part is that i still think i love you even with all of your newfound flaws. the pseudo-intellectual in you does not make the music that you think it does. but whatever it is, that sound, it gets me. it hits a spot. (yeah, jay. you still turn me on.)
but pretty soon your airs start to feel a little flat (or maybe a little sharp knowing the dissonant way you tend to look at things, stravinsky). and MAYBE there's a little bit of beauty in the way you fake the notes you just can't seem to hit... but even that’s starting to lose its Technicolor. and forgive me for laughing at the oh-so-artistic way you dance but - the beatnik in you just can't seem to find the beat. but i'll give you some credit while i toast you with my fiji water for your valiant effort.
it isn’t you, it’s me. Because We’re All Fucking Hypocrites, jay. Right?
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