Lovers of Artists

I’m a lover of my muse
The critics are so rude
The crowds are empty and cruel

But it’s art
You call it art

I’m not owned by anyone
I don’t owe to anything
I can tell who he is

“Baby, it’s part of art”

A-ha, A-ha

I’m not the subject, I’m the set on fire
Not framed, I’m spilled
You call it mess, aftermath

Curtain down, oh, black out
Exit sign, echo down the stairs
Monologue but bruised backstage
The truth is…

One moment,
You say “I’ll lay you down by fire”
One moment,
“Baby, please keep my secrets to my enemy”

Oh, baby
Why would I?

A-ha, A-ha
A-ha, A-ha

Nothing rehearsed, all of it was real
I wasn’t the icon, just the incident

Lovers of artists
Proof of what I’m doing
People love to watch it
Take my photo, bitches

Put me in your thesis
Blueprints fractured without me
Called it a breakdown — fine,
make it modern art, then