I wanna be rich, I wanna be famous, the cream of the crop;
I’m gonna crawl, walk, run, sprint, scratch my way to the top.
Immerse myself in imagination, drown in illusion;
dance deliriously and deftly, let myself drift in delusion.
I wanna be loved and adored; be incredibly wise.
Count numbers, write verse; see how far an aeroplane flies.
The wealth of the net is at my finger tips, it is essential;
quote Camus and Sartre, sound profoundly existential.
I wanna strut the stage, to thunderous applause;
bow, begin, ne’er to stop (will this moment last forever?).
Stay away from mirrors, they’re a curse;
tell the truth, and even worse.
I wanna be rich, I wanna be famous; the cream of the crop;
not the milk (nutritious as it might be), the stuff that floats to the top.
Dressed in stolen robes, illusion and delusion are my friends,
with them at my side, the mimicry will never end.
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