The Illusory Truth Effect

You’re a pub band with fuzz pedals,
You’re a Goth ostrich with a lisp,

Your bass player looks like a suicidal Morman
And half the crowd’s made up of work colleagues
Looking for something to laugh about on Monday;

Your guitarist writes manic-depressive haikus
Late at night in a candlelit room after every gig,
Some are smeared with tears,

And he’s just finished a debut solo album
Filled with songs you know nothing about,
With guest spots from six of your mates.

All your stage moves are improvised,
Like confused gestures powered by heartburn,
Channeled from a nursing home step class,

Your drummer’s got an NVQ in plumbing
And you start every set with a song
About a threesome that’s totally fictional,

But you’ve sung it so many times
You’re convinced that it’s real.

The hand-drawn Robert Smith
You’ve badly inked on your pale grey t-shirt
Looks more like a white Diana Ross,

One of your two groupies is your dentist,
Your hand claps are arrhythmic,

And you’re unasked for encore
Has twelve notes you can’t hit
And a bit where you snap a kazoo.

But you’ve got ‘something’.

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