[Intro]
[Verse 1]
Sipping champagne from a paper cup,
Name-drop Foucault like it’s just my luck.
Mirror-ball eyes and a borrowed bowtie,
I’m the critic’s delight, but the punchline’s in sight.
[Chorus]
Oh, I’m a paperback Proust in a thrift-store trench,
Dancing through parties with a faux-French clench.
Jangle-pop riffs and a synth-wave disguise,
I’m the art you don’t get—but adore with your eyes.
[Verse 2]
Monocle cracked, quoting Kierkegaard,
I dissect your playlist like it’s avant-garde.
Your vinyl’s too clean, my obscurity’s pristine,
A pastel pretender in a black-and-white scene.
[Chorus]
Oh, I’m a paperback Proust in a thrift-store trench,
Dancing through parties with a faux-French clench.
Jangle-pop riffs and a synth-wave disguise,
I’m the art you don’t get—but adore with your eyes.
[Bridge]
I’ll sigh at your truths, rewrite them in Latin,
A crown of cassette tape, but the glue’s never flattenin’.
Postmodern and petty, a cliché refined,
My ego’s a relic—one-of-a-kind.
[Chorus]
Oh, I’m a paperback Proust in a thrift-store trench,
Dancing through parties with a faux-French clench.
Jangle-pop riffs and a synth-wave disguise,
I’m the art you don’t get—but adore with your eyes.
[Outro]
