[Intro]
[Verse 1]
Sipping absinthе through a monocle glare,
Name-drop Picasso like hе hangs in the air.
Jangly guitars hum a tune so obscure,
"Obvious?" No—it’s avant-garde, I assure.
[Chorus]
We’re too deep for the radio waves,
Draped in irony, how the posers behave.
New wave rhythms and a vintage facade,
We’re the art you don’t get—but we’ll still call you "odd."
[Verse 2]
Thesaurus lips spill a cryptic cliché,
"Synth-pop’s d**d," but we’ll resurrect it our way.
Mirror-plated shoes k**k the dust off the past,
Nostalgia’s a trend if you sell it so fast.
[Chorus]
We’re too deep for the radio waves,
Draped in irony, how the posers behave.
New wave rhythms and a vintage facade,
We’re the art you don’t get—but we’ll still call you "odd."
[Bridge]
Postmodern prose in a three-minute song,
The critics can’t parse it—but they’ll nod along.
A wink to the crowd, but it’s all misdirection,
Our pretension’s the point—it’s the *perfect* infection.
[Chorus]
We’re too deep for the radio waves,
Draped in irony, how the posers behave.
New wave rhythms and a vintage facade,
We’re the art you don’t get—but we’ll still call you "odd."
[Outro]
