There’s a gulf between the written word
and the truth, which by fewer will be heard.
The strength with which they believe it
depends on they means by which they receive it:
they don’t know what they see unless they’re told.
The Living Legend’s ramen’s getting cold.

Out with old and in with new, through the heart
of this culture circulating art –
the murderer’s music gets attention,
while another’s barely gets a mention
because it doesn’t run above the fold.
The Living Legend’s ramen’s getting cold.

Give ‘em something, and they won’t try it,
but they’ll talk it up if they’d been made buy it.
Artists cannot hope to make a dime;
entertainers get paid just for their time –
its worth is just the price for which it’s sold.
The Living Legend’s ramen’s getting cold.

It’s futility itself, to be unique:
no similarities to show it’s what they seek.
Something is worth being so desired
if one can boast that one’s also acquired
that for which they’d auctioned-off the mold.
The Living Legend’s ramen’s getting cold.

I’d heard about him when I was 20,
and nothing since, but stories then were plenty –
some weird genius, deranged, and so on,
with but one picture for historians to go on,
though by now, he’s unrecognizably old.
The Living Legend’s ramen’s getting cold.

Well, if you'll excuse me, now . . .

© 2015 Steve Fitch
My Music by Me Music (BMI)