Some are masters of illusions, some are ministers of trade, all under the same delusion, all their beds unmade.
Someday I'm gonna be famous. Do I have talent, well, no. These days you really don't need it.
Someone showed me a picture and I just laughed, dignity never been photographed.
Sure, the killer was my son, but I didn't teach him to pull the trigger of the gun. It's the killer on this TV screen, you can't blame me, it's the images he sees.
Take down those naked pictures of Ernest Borgnine.
Tell the people what they want and decide what they need.
The almighty dollar and the lust for world wide fame, slowly killed tradition, and for that someone should hang.
The art of longing's over, and it's never coming back.
The beautiful people in the magazines, got the normal ones living beyond their means.
The biggest fool to hit the big time and all I've got to do is act naturally.
The Christians to the lions sold out every night.
The currents rage so deep upon us, this is the age of video violence.
The dirt of gossip blows into my face and the dust rumors cover me. But if the arrow is straight and the point is slick, it can pierce through dust no matter how thick.
The fog of illusion, the fog of confusion is hanging all over the world.
The good Samaritan, he's getting dressed, he's getting ready for the show. He's going to the carnival tonight on Desolation Row.
The Hollywood sirens are shrieking, while down some search lit alley runs some lost belief.
The media sells it and you live the role.
The rain is sharp today, as you shock me sane.
The rhythm is below me, the rhythm of the heat. The rhythm is around me, the rhythm has control. The rhythm is inside me, the rhythm has my soul.
The ring at the end of my nose makes me look rather pretty.
The unavoidable kiss, where the minty fresh death breath is sure to outlast his catastrophe.
There's been a load of compromising, on the road to my horizon, but I'm gonna be where the lights are shining on me.
They self-inflict punishment on their own broken lives, put their faith in their possessions, in their jobs, or their wives.
They're not your words, but you're reciting the lines.
This Hollywood ain't no good, I would rather be like Robin Hood.
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