I like my music a little rough.
I want it to have texture.
It should scratch my skin,
Cut me to the bone,
Devastate me, destroy me.
Illuminate me and get me off.
Good music is like good sex,
Touching me in private places.
Coming in ecstatic spurts of brilliance.
Now, the Eurovision Song Contest,
Is mostly unheard of in America.
But it’s massive in Europe.
Bigger than the Academy Awards,
And the Superbowl, combined.
One might assume that,
The purpose of such a contest,
Is to celebrate greatness, but no.
It’s actually a festival of mediocrity.
Of songs designed and manufactured,
By a whole teams of song writers.
Who style and blow dry and polish them,
Until every bit of roughness is buffed off.
Then they package them,
Wrap them up in plastic,
Till they’re nice and shiny.
And dangle them in front the,
Lowest Common Goldfish.