Hollywood, oh Hollywood.
Oh Hollywood, oh Hollywood, oh Hollywood.
It's the end of the roadwork.
Your timepiece has come,
And it's a swatch.
Notch one more crotch on your bedposter -
That glossy, ten five twenty-two eight
That I have to pass every day on my work to drive.
Five days an hour, eight weeks a day
Hollywood, you make it so!
You make so,
And you make it so easy.

But no more.
I'll not have it.
I'll not have your scientists of magic.
I'll not have your tragic matches
Acting as hatched from practiced scratch,
Far detached from my actual batch.
I'll not latch.

Holly, I enjoy woodburning,
And I'll be ****** if I let you talk me into
Buying wood in sizes I don't need.
"It's bigger and looks better, and it can be yours!"
Well, so can the forest, Holly.
So can the sticks and bits and wild peach pits.
All for free, all for me,
All without fashion, death, or ****
(Unless I choose to use them).

Hollywood, you are my tenth grade English teacher.
You should be teaching math,
But you been subjected to so much juvenile crap
That you sell your contributions
As though they were miracle cures for a dying language.
BUT.
You're in a rut.
You don't know it
(Most 70-year-old virgins don't),
But you are.
Go on, get ******.
You believe in formulas.
Hollywood, this movie
(Yes, the one I'm typing and you're reading),
This movie would never make it in your classroom.
It has no meter,
Just a hint of rhyme,
And very few explosions sixty minutes in.
If I can't mumble it to a children's tune,
I get neither "A" nor award.