Glamour
So what if
your pretty face
is so expendable,
and those layers of paint, those layers of paint
cover up your soul, cover up your face
And maybe, maybe I, I’m catching on to this,
and maybe you don’t see.
Put the magazine down,
this is real life you know
cause there’s not much left to the imagination,
and I’ve grown sick of your disease
so is this what you need?
This isn’t what you need.
So tell me now just how it feels
Prescribing to this bitter pill of yours.
You’re dressing to impress them,
Show some cleavage, a little leg and you’ll do just fine.
Weight-loss schemes and fucked-up dreams,
Tell me is this what makes you feel right at home
When all is said and done,
just what do you call fun?
Exploited and undone,
You’re missed you’ve missed what you’ve become.
Put the magazine down,
this is real life you know
cause there’s not much left to the imagination,
and I’ve grown sick of your disease
so is this what you need?
This isn’t what you need.
You’re self-inflicted pain,
Is driving me insane
And your dreams will end up shunning your someday.
And I could see your pathetic smile a thousand miles away
And no one even cares
Put the magazine down,
this is real life you know
cause there’s not much left to the imagination,
and I’ve grown sick of your disease
so is this what you need?
This isn’t what you need.
Eric Openshaw 