in this place muses paint themselves up like whores
and waves of laugh-tracks break upon pacific shores
the seasons can’t stand each other but go onstage and perform
and the night’s stars can rehab but never reform

here tragedies are measured in box office revenues
as the desert spills out over endless avenues
and a city of agents and angels conspire like maniac priests
to slaughter pop on the pyre for the ritual feasts

and we’re all stranded in this subterranean wild west ghost town
pushing the plunger on inspiration’s syringe down
rolling with an entourage of muses and humours
beefing up rider demands like a band of conjurers

synced to a different time zone by a syncopated beat
the scratch on vinyl passing like undetected counterfeit
as everyone funds a fantasy on someone else’s dime,
it’s all entertainment fabricated just for the coveted rhyme