Let me tell you of a place nearby, Where folks willingly come to die. They hope to clad themselves in gold, Rich from the parts of them they have sold. They value appearance above all, Cherish not the true muses call. But I am here to tell you of their mistake, And keep you for your own sake.
They cling to a box they hope holds their dreams, It only holds their greediness’ gleam. An instant amusement and a jester’s play, The drab satisfied, the artists pay. A flavour soon passed, a shine soon faded, Leaving their fans all bland and jaded. The evil machine that never relents, Producing vile copies without end.
Chorus: Hear all ye people, and gather around! There’s a market in the old town square, Selling themselves cheap by the pound, In this great Laissez Fair.
This journey to the bank leads to Hell, With their souls serving as fare. All bound and shackled to forever dwell, In this great Laissez Fair.
The worst of it is that we abide, And behind blind apathy we hide. Is your taste made by who throws the dough? Or who puts on the best show? Yet a cure is afoot, we must make a choice, Let us say no, refuse and rejoice. Let music be art, not an item be, Or true talent we will never see.
ChorusTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
