Maniac Avenue

There's a group of skids that decorate the walls of Maniac Avenue.
I joined them once,
we found something better to do.
We scribbled our thoughts into a notebook,
and sold our souls for a new look.
A fashionable affair, with permafried hair.
A face more than just a mother could love. 
We were on the covers of magazines,
next to toasters in department stores,
and plastered across American teenage drawers.
The talk of the town,
the talk of the world,
the talk of everyone,
except one girl,
who knew the skids from Maniac Avenue,
and proceeded to tell the world,
how we were screwed.

Shooting stardom falling from the sky,
so fast,
it made the skids cry.
They tried to convince the world of a lie,
but reality opened,
and everyone was there to buy.
Back to Maniac Avenue with the soulless skids,
who danced in their hall of fame,
then drowned in a pool of shame. 

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