Attica! Attica! The End Of Art
When I was pretty lean on cash, I was alone, no place to crash
Music flowed out of me like faucets spouting tasty melodies
Now there’s a love that’s in my life, I sleep the same place every night
Comforts of industry are happily surrounding me
And nowadays, I have no complaints
Nothing more to say
Nothing more to say
Is this the end of art? is this the end of passion?
Is this the end of grief? Are all our feelings has-beens?
Is this the end of pain creatively imagined?
Is this the end of art? Is this the end of art?
It’s cool to like the President so there’s no reason for dissent
Everyone put down their guns and all that pesky violence is done
Our nukes are sleeping with the fish and everybody’s birthday wish comes true
And children sing and fairies dance on sparrow wings
And no complaints, no one wants a change
Nothing left to say
Nothing left to say
Is that the end of art? Is that the end of passion?
Is that the end of grief? Are all our feelings has-beens?
Is that the end of pain crafted in abstraction?
Is that the end of art? Is that the end?
Is anything here more depraved than a country singer who just raves about how swell his country is, just shilling for the government?
Sit down my friend and let me bore you while we sit here on the porch with cocktails as I bloviate about how life’s so f..ckin’ great
I’m not happy unless I’m pissed but that reveals my privilege: no matter who’s in charge today, my life is pretty much the same
So with no reason to protest, I’ll whine about how art is best when we know sadness, anguish and distress
Is this the end of art? Is this the end of passion?
Is this the end of grief? Are all our feelings has-beens?
Is this the end of pain creatively imagined?
Is this the end of art?
Is this the end of art? Is this the end of passion?
Is this the end of grief? Are all our feelings has-beens?
Is this the end of pain all crafted in abstraction?
Is this the end of art? Is this the end of art?
