Track 6


Waiting for the cricket scores to come through on my phone one Saturday. Kept getting distracted by a piece in the New Statesman that someone had tweeted.

Got me thinking about power. Real power. Shadow power, super quangos, hedge funds, ex government advisors with new jobs and opaque remits. Went upstairs and wrote this lyric. Borrowed some chords from a famous Scientologist. 

Didn't think I liked it. Came downstairs and checked on the cricket again.



Who has the keys
Who's on your team
Who makes the wake up call
While you live the dream
High five, deep dive
Generation Jones
Crunch base the marketplace
Stream The Ramones

Best be careful how you tread
Head honcho turns to figurehead
Your mortal soul is market led
They mean just half of what they said
They’d all love to be in your shoes
You got the showrunner's blues

Who yanks your strings
Who ties your hands
Who sends those whispers
Down the chain of command
You court notoriety
You run a tight ship
American piety
Meets stiff upper lip

A yoga mat, a therapist
An upsize to a bucket list
A new request to co-exist
It's vague but still you get the gist
It's one more offer you can't refuse
And the showrunner's blues

You took this all on
Clued in and qualified
Book in your right hand
God surely on your side
The room at the top
Was smaller than they implied

Fist bump the Zeitgeist
Wave to the fans
But there's a butterfly in China
There's a vulnerable man
They'll do the rewrite
Right in front of your eyes
With a secret handshake
And a word to the wise

The sweet smell of success will sour
So stop confusing fame with power
Your pretty little ivory tower
Is getting colder by the hour
You'll catch it on the six o clock news
You've got the showrunner's blues