The Art Of Patrons

Eurycles, I am broken
 The disciple smiles in disgust
 The Satyrs have awoken
 And things aren't here to be discussed
 We traded the privilege for scraps
 Exchanged for the clothes on our backs
 Lived life like there was no other way
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 What was sacrosanct
 Now the sacred is profane
 We yearn for the thanks
 But deserve all the blame
 A simple piece of stagecraft
 A tawdry parlour trick
 We traded our moral ground so they could sing along
 But is it so bad
 Is it as dark as it seems
 To trade a little purity to prolong the dream
 One by one we will find a way to let each and every one
 Down
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 It's the privilege of mass delusion
 Sit back and have a seat
 Dazzled by the greed
 It's his voice between my lips
 It's the miracle of gastromancy
 They are spinning in their graves
 At the choices we have made
 But in our shoes would they all have been so chaste