down the street and
to the left,
pull into the old junkyard

turn up the music and
lie to me.
confidently, no remorse,
without knowing (is it better that way?)

blast your tunes,
it’s a composite of every song on the radio;
music in the same way
OSB is wood

well mince my words, but
you feed the same regurgitated shit to me
and my friends and the world

originality is a joke (get some new material),
but quit lying to me—
I’m not mad ’cause it’s not new,
I’m mad cause you didn’t make it
but you said you did

you’re sitting in your car but
you haven’t had a lifetime of making mud pies and
questioning yourself and 
failing to learn guitar and
forming opinions to
back your creations up.

I’m not asking you to leave,
I’m asking you to play a different song.

I’m asking you to try something other than the hamburger,
try something whole, 
even if you don’t like it.