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
bendingtheneedle 