Autotuned Anomaly Poem by Joyce Rugg

Music 'artists' are just creations
Talentless fools, inane aspirations
One direction are the kings of pop
Like bubbles, they float to the top

They make millions for less than nothing
Though they've no spirit, no talent to bring
They're buoyed up, to fly on high
Above the few, true, ones who scrape by

They're forced to sleep in frigid cars,
To perform for drunks in crowded bars
While we worship tools with ashen  hearts
And judge talent by what's on the charts