TV talent contests have become incrementally more cruel, gladiatorial, and fetishistic about the arbitrary power of those who gatekeep their fantasies of wealth and status. Perhaps not worth caring about in itself, but symptomatic of something.
lyrics
Studio lights, leather armrests
A mother comes to plead
The basilisks hear her entreaty
impassively
Close-up on tongue flicking over dry lips
A finger taps a knee
Drum roll and now here’s the verdict
It’s a die in a ditch, from me
Judges’ houses, always so tasteless
look out across a shining sea
My desires are terrible and shapeless
Sing for me, oh, sing your heart out for me
Some kindnesses are more
than we can afford
Go back whence you came
before we get bored
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