“What are they called?”
They’re all trying to make it
A terrible thought launched to the forefront of my mind
A thought I can’t shake, as I stand behind-
The merch stand, show a little bra to sell more of his merch
The sound guy by me is in a bit of a lerch
Bassists gone flying into the drums
Chaos rehearses itself,
a soundtrack for ambition.
They’re all trying to make it
“You know Roze?”
I know Roze “how do you know Roze?”
Funny how a name becomes a meaning,
passed around in dim-lit back rooms.
But ironically this is how “the way things go”
They’re all trying to make it
I’m trying to ‘make it’
But for now I’ll stand by the merch stand
Hoping these T-shirts would sell out
The guitarist on stage has a kink for barking
He’s in the green room hopes still sparking
Wishing his dreams weren’t stitched to mine
God I hope his merch sells
He’s just trying to make it
We’re all trying to make it
But for now, I stand here, battling Zettle
We’re all just clinging to the same threadbare hope—
that maybe, this time, the someone notices.
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