Underpaid Artists

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The Quill Pen Gallery

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Artists are meant to die at 25 without a job
At least that's what I tell myself
'Cause playing bass in a punk rock trio doesn't pay the bills
You either passion play or waste away among your dying thrills

Maddie was a painter in a liberal college town
Her parents killed her joy for it as she was art school bound
And now she smokes a pack a day and wonders what went wrong
"There's no cash in art" she said "in paint or word or song"

Jake's ambitions lead him to make some indie folk
He learned to play the fiddle with Mark who played banjo
They were only 16 when they played their first basement gig
A drummer from another band said "You're gonna make it big"

They sent demos to the A&Rs but never heard a word
Their parents were so sick of it as their grades had took a turn
While they were in English, their instruments were sold
To some other sad sack trying to express their soul

And in a fit of rage, Jake and Mark had hit their moms
Embroiled in the heat, correctional facilities were called
Now they are conditioned to be faceless businessmen
Another dreamer turned in to the fascist system's head

Jeffrey was a redneck bound to be the smartest man alive
He'd dig the worms out of the dirt and teach them how to dive
He took them to Lake Irena north of Hazleton, PA
Fingers crossed, he let them off, and they drowned the very next day

He was only 6 when he discovered Newton's Laws
He tried to push a boulder down a hill to kill a dog
And late at night, he'd sneak down to the train tracks in the woods
And wonder when they'd roll by, but for years they never would

Impatient as a boy he felt his stomach tie in knots
When teacher in geometry would ask for proofs and thoughts
He got cosine of 2pi and the class laughed in his face
He said, "You call this experience, I call this a disgrace."

So that night he wrote a song with his father's old guitar
He only knew a G chord but the words were from the heart
He prayed to God to have this be a sign of what to do
He recorded it with a cassette before the tape had split in two

That fateful night in '96, he was just 17
He found his father's rifle that he used for killing geese
"If my song was meant to just spill out onto the deck
Than what am I still waiting for?" As the metal left his chest

Artists don't just leave their art without a sense of pride
They've cut slivers of their souls and laid them to a canvas' eye
To strip them of this humanity is but the greatest crime
Another underpaid artist, waiting now to die

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