Toshi

The gig’s over Toshi, idealism’s dead

The devil wear’s Prada, and fucks with our head

The star that we followed, has died in our bed

The gig’s over Toshi, it hangs in the shed

The gig’s over Toshi, I wish it weren’t true

the cruelty has grossly been poured in the brew

and drank with a gusto by the poisonous few

then shot out as arrows at both me and you

The gig we were chasing was as false as the sky

the horizon was crooked, and we couldn’t pry

the truth from the Wellstone, that was you and I

the gig’s over Toshi, in the blink of an eye