You Are a Victim when You Sing Alone

Looking at you was like looking at a me
Who hadn't ever changed.

Intentionally awkward, guitar in hand, patches covering your jacket, rejecting everything
And putting yourself down in some twisted strategy
Hoping others won't.

At first I thought we were alike;
Now I'm far enough removed
(And not entranced by your white-girl dreadlocks)
That you're like a character,
A piece of whom I sensitively own
Even if I never write you.

I like Bob Dylan, too,
And I understand the anger in your voice.
I'm singing Irish music now--
And I think you should have studied opera.

Most people don't move me enough
To make me judge them,
But there you sang,
Patchwork clothing like my decade past.
Here I am,
Playing time-traveler
Just to tell you something:

You are a victim
When you sing alone.

You are a victim
When you sing alone.