I’m not a pop star and I cannot sing or dance
And yet I’ll often wonder what I would have
In my rider for dressing rooms on tour.
I’d have flowers that are yellow, and candles
That smell strongly of sandalwood.
I’d have big bowls of Reese’s and cold cherry coke
And I’d order in pizza that I’d eat with my dancers
When we roll off the stage looking sweaty and tired.
We’d crush into rooms in cities with no names,
Laughing at signs that we’d read in the crowd
While buzzing with nerves that twang with the tension,
The crowds drifting out to beds that are warm,
Ears still ringing for days at a time
And we’ll move on to another arena, a cathedral
To pop music prayed to by the masses
And paying for my flowers and sandalwood candles.