The Artist
Somehow there’s a price to pay
Since there’s something there to say
But there’s no one there to save
The body, not the mind, that brushes brave
Putting all sort of tools to serve truth
A deserving feat for senior and youth
So people say He’s right with insight
But now people say it’s not worth the fight
And in a land of strangers the artist finds
Better souls, better strangers, better minds
They lend him food of body for food of thought
And he wishes his thoughts were better bought
A voice that carries through the soggy speeches
And other sounds support like leeches
What matters is the life of the party
The average one is just not a party
A real hero dies on the rise
A false one lives with a sham surprise
The artist knows the truth in precious
The politician just knows how delicious
And every dictator chases made mice
Promising punishment with inventive device
But a voice is heard ten times over the mic
For every broadcast there’s a limitless like
Yes, the artist is a voice over a mountain's peak
Sounding like a echo in a valley once he speaks
While others sell the goods
To sell the truth for a profit he never would