It’s a popular misconception that some clapping equals love,
That to please some hick-town-audience is like mana from above,
That their grudging grunts of pleasure mean you’re taken to their hearts,
But there’s more to art than pleasing them, you’re the sum of all your parts.
For a people-pleasing artist is like a fish on desert sand,
A blindly flailing halibut who is pleading for their hand,
They will salt you and they’ll vinegar you then they’ll scrunch you to a ball,
Then throw you to the cold north wind and let you flap along the hall.
So brace your broadened shoulders, it is the thing to do,
Then do the thing that irks them most, when they boo you, shout Fuck You!