The Star

There’s no place to go anymore with your art
And the media decides if you’re a star
Some scribe with little or no knowledge will be judge and executioner
But what of the thousands who love your work
Bastardised by a critic readily published under privilege
Are you not all but ruined by this prized fucking know all
Then tell me clearly you bastard, what is it you have done
That makes your critique so much better than the art itself
And when you were challenged you knew nothing
But for cover you clearly ran
Protected by something called newspaper circulation
Yet you dare to go home at night and believe you are talented
So what happens when your newspaper is no longer read as widely?
Oh yes, that’s it, you eat humble pie and the rest of us still starve
When fame finally reaches our door there you are
On your comeback trail
You prized arsole, trying for an exclusive and you know
We are just so happy to give, as we now have to love you.
My how we have grown together through thick and thin
And by the way, I have always loved your work
And the media decides if you’re a star