John Mayer is a sell out little prick. Here, I will prove it.
And he sings his songs like captain kirk.
“John Mayer is a genius,” she said to me
Consequentially
It’s just conceit.
Get a life
Then she flusters full of strife
“Well you never learned guitar and among other things
he wears brand name jeans
”I’d like to think he’ll marry me
and he’ll buy me
An SUV”
But John’s a sellout
Sporting his Calvin Klein’s
His crappy songs all
lead to Genocide.
I’d rather run across fields full of mousetraps
I’d rather be forced to watch
Real World Reruns
Instead of listening to his tortured soul on the radio
He’s just a fake that the girls all love
So he sings about clouds and rainbows for attention seeking girlfriends
Or else their life will end
What a disaster
So he writes a quick song to get in her pants faster
He’s little guitar,
that’s getting old too
I know a cactus that could play so much better
Wouldn’t get your CDs
Or even free Mp3s
I hate to tell you
Stay at Burger King
Keep your old job
Oh, and one more thing…
I’d rather run a handsaw over my clavichord
I’d rather beam myself in the
Face with a rake
I would rather get lepercy and eternal runs
Then listen to your pseudo stomach ache
Your music is intolerable
You taint my CD drive
I’d rather glue myself to the front of a snowplow
I’d rather dream about a
Naked Stare Jones
I’d do anything to prevent a new album
I’d even eat my own kidney stones
I just can’t wait til I meet you in person
I’m gonna bust your guitar in half
And when you cower in the corner I’ll stand before you
And I’ll beg you for your autograph.