He was a bed wetter
His fashion sense? Sweaters and sketchers
Decades later - he’s a celebrity who fans send letters to
A trend setter with a reputation as top head getter too

Ask for his autograph?
Not so fast, back up, got to have lots of cash…
Diamonds, dames, and chains claimed from rhymes for the brainless
His rise to fame wasn’t worth the price it came with
Can’t dine or savor even going potty
Paparazzi’s stalking til they find their way in
His mansion with the psycho fans they hang with
A little respect is all he begged
But not to reach the level where he’s pegged
As some kind of Christ figure to save them
Literal figurines and shrines fill up their basements

He almost had it all
The one thing he lacked led to his tragic fall
On his way to the top, no comrades to joke with
He just isolated and locked himself in his lab and focused
On his craft, not to be tainted by all the average Josephs
Despite the mansions, plaques, and hoes dripping
When his hair grayed, he began to notice
Singing alone, he thought “Damn, I’m bogus”
Drinking his gin as he jammed to old hits
With no real kin there, the man was soulless
When the Grim Reaper came, his hand was coldest
© FuzzDButthead