Call the Cameras

I've been addicted to Elliott Smith...again. I seriously love the way he wrote his songs. His story is one of the most interesting ones I've come across and it makes me really sad and obsessed. His music is seriously addictive. Here's to Elliott.
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Baggy clothes and shabby hair

He holds a balloon of his heart

His mind holds not the slightest care

Yet his thoughts could take him apart

Call the cameras, they'll make up a story

They won't care, they'll spell his name wrong

He'll be the last one to notice it all,

He'll be gone by the end of his song, by the end of his song

His mind a Roman candle that burns with the sorrows he holds

His heart broken to bits, held together forever by cold

And his feet tired of dancing and dancing on pots of gold

Inside as beat up he may be, tries to appear bold

Call the cameras, they'll ask him to be there

They'll push him away out of their way

He'll move aside like he always does

And avoid it for he knows he'll be gone away, with nothing to say; nothing to say

He sang the songs of a tired soul,

His words put us in the warmest black hole,

But his peculiarity took its toll

They said his own life he stole

Call the cameras, they'll call it tragic,

And say it was all for the best

He'll be alive as if by magic

And we'll forget about all the rest, about all the rest.