To snark, or not to snark, that is the indigestion.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
Thru pop music and outrageous autotune
Or to take arms against the Queens and Joels
And by opposing end them. Oh my. No creeps.
No more, and by creeps we mean
The hacks and the schlock
That fills the air for our consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. Oh my. No creeps.
For it is those creeps, and those streams that come
On our Pods of I, that have shuffled those mortal coils
We can hit pause, or show respect
For those who would bear the whips and scorns of Mayer
Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's Clapton
The pangs of Courtney Love, the law's delay
The insolence of Kanye, and the spurns
The merit of Pepper's unworthy takes
When he, Giles Martin, might an interview in Quietus make
To grunt and sweat, under concert lights
But that dread of something after death
The undiscovered country, like more remasters or deluxe editions
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
Unless your Buckley or Hendrix, to make us
Bear those ills we have
And buy it all, again, yet again
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all
With this regard, our torrents turn awry
And lose the damn connection