If you ever get the chance
To watch the sunrise over a city of gold,
Fucking do it.
Don't let anybody tell you it's iron pyrite,
Or just gold-plated.
Don't let them talk down to you.
If you don't smoke,
Well, you might want to start.
It's hard for some people to watch their dreams come true.
They call it Stendhal's Syndrome,
But that doesn't matter.
What matters is mood music.
Bring a jukebox,
Run an extension cord if you have to.
All the way back to Omaha,
But probably Portland.
Plug it in and weight the needle heavy.
Brood like an artist should,
About how every time you play that song on vinyl,
You're changing it for keeps.
And while we're debunking myths,
Don't let them tell you an artist
Is supposed to be a solitary creature.
And tell those friends to bring kerosene.
This is your dream.
Burn what you want.
Give the sunrise competition.
Fly high on wax wings.
It'll only last a couple minutes,
But ask a sex addi