Elliott Smith

the imitation picks you up like a habit
riding in the glow of the tv static
taking out the trash to the man
give the people something they understand
mistake a nervous flash for a fine-line smile
junk bond trader trying to sell a sucker a stock
rich man in a poor man's clothes
the permanent installment of the daily dose
and you tell me, fool, you tell it like it is
your wall's gone wider than your head trip is
checking into a small reality
void as a drug you take too regularly
the apple needs to laugh; the broken crutch
the first two folded at the slightest touch
brought down like an old hotel
people digging through the rubble for things they can resell