Underpaid Artists Lyrics

Artists are meant to die at 25 without a job

At least that's what I tell myself

'Cause playing bass in a punk rock trio doesn't pay the bills

You either passion play or waste away among your dying thrills

Maddie was a painter in a liberal college town

Her parents killed her joy for it as she was art school bound

And now she smokes a pack a day and wonders what went wrong

"There's no cash in art" she said "in paint or word or song"

Jake's ambitions lead him to make some indie folk

He learned to play the fiddle with Mark who played banjo

They were only 16 when they played their first basement gig

A drummer from another band said "You're gonna make it big"

They sent demos to the A&Rs but never heard a word

Their parents were so sick of it as their grades had took a turn

While they were in English, their instruments were sold

To some other sad sack trying to express their soul

And in a fit of rage, Jake and Mark had hit their moms

Embroiled in the heat, correctional facilities were called

Now they are conditioned to be faceless businessmen

Another dreamer turned in to the fascist system's head

Jeffrey was a redneck bound to be the smartest man alive

He'd dig the worms out of the dirt and teach them how to dive

He took them to Lake Irena north of Hazleton, PA

Fingers crossed, he let them off, and they drowned the very next day

He was only 6 when he discovered Newton's Laws

He tried to push a boulder down a hill to kill a dog

And late at night, he'd sneak down to the train tracks in the woods

And wonder when they'd roll by, but for years they never would

Impatient as a boy he felt his stomach tie in knots

When teacher in geometry would ask for proofs and thoughts

He got cosine of 2pi and the class laughed in his face

He said, "You call this experience, I call this a disgrace."

So that night he wrote a song with his father's old guitar

He only knew a G chord but the words were from the heart

He prayed to God to have this be a sign of what to do

He recorded it with a cassette before the tape had split in two

That fateful night in '96, he was just 17

He found his father's rifle that he used for killing geese

"If my song was meant to just spill out onto the deck

Than what am I still waiting for?" As the metal left his chest

Artists don't just leave their art without a sense of pride

They've cut slivers of their souls and laid them to a canvas' eye

To strip them of this humanity is but the greatest crime

Another underpaid artist, waiting now to die