I could say it is so precious,
But then I would be lying.

I could say we are all lucky;
Everyone would believe me.

I could pull that microphone up to my chin,
Curl my lips around the thirty different voices,
Repeat it over and over,
Year after year after year.

No matter how much I ate at that microphone,
I would still go to Hell
For all the lies I told the world,
About itself.