stuck in the middle

in a big office the the big city
in a glass building without soul or pity
starbucks smiles plastic glasses
palates toned, they're all perfect asses
and they look at me like an answer to a riddle
and still i feel stuck in the middle
carrot's taken hands are shook
then the write it down in their real big book
and then they remember, what they didn't say
you're the one with the vision, just do it our way
and they play me like a bow on a fiddle
and still i feel stuck in the middle
it's a little like high school, with a whole lotta money
clicks with the chicks, milk and no honey
it's a lollapoluza with a bloodless heart
well that's entertainment, but is it art?
they talk too much they say too little
and still i feel stuck in the middle
and the young ones scramble, and the old ones bitch
about evil system, that made them rich
it was so awful, i once broke a nail
thank god for vh1 to tell the tale
did they just hear what they just said
i guess they were wrong irony isn't dead
it smells funny, but i ain't laughing
and i get the picture, that they are fotographing
i think too much i do too little
and still i'm sitting stuck in the middle
i got callus fingers, but i still feel
your callus motives, which is real
when i get to the top of your bottom line
the air smells of awful, but the view is fine