Everyone sings of their own glory days.
The golden chains, fancy airplanes, hotties with manes.
They say at allow them to paraphrase.
Roll in the reins, call in the dames, chill all our veins.
We know that these stories are fallacious.
For the most part, to woo the heart, not for the art.
Yet many are sucked in, it's contagious.
But it's too tart. Built a rampart to keep apart.
For me, I prefer the small town tag team.
Realistic, it's simplistic, but fantastic.
Conquer mountains, then head out for ice cream.
It's a classic, need not magic, all pragmatic.
Those affluent artists can keep their bling.
They're still hollow, always shallow, minds too narrow.
I'll keep to finding the silver lining.
To stay a go, and I'll have no alter ego.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem