Spent my last bone on the Rolling Stone
Inside that magazine
I read about our new beauty queen

Avenue A where the egg creams grow
Great music makers nobody knows
Singing to the back walls of empty bars
Singing protest songs on subway cars
Down stairs tuning their guitars
Ten bucks a show from the tip jar
and they go home and write more
go home and write more
go home and close the door
Beauty queen doesn't want me
The ladies on the upper east side always eye me
I turn on the radio but I can't find me
I'm downstairs tuning my guitar
I am a needle buried in hay
No one could find me any day

I am covered in ten year plans, funny tattoos, California sand
I am covered in sleepless nights, too many ideas, my rockstar brights on
And two years of needing you
Two years of trying you
Two years of thinking you
Were the best I could have

The best minds of my generation
Won't be seen on a TV station
They're singing to the back walls of empty bars
Singing protest songs on subway cars
Downstairs tuning their guitars
Ten bucks a show from the tip jar
and they go home and write more
go home and write more
go home and close the door