Between the black T. Shirt beard scratchers,
and the iTunes shufflers, stands the DJ.
He’s in the firing line of well-oiled mouths
loosened by a couple of tequilas.
The crucial spot to have his nuts grabbed,
ears burned. Third-person agony aunt,
emotional punch bag.
He’s caining the rider beers, there isn’t enough.
He’s dry.
A sticky floor selection,
She will DIE if he doesn’t play her song,
Is this better than an empty room?
She just vomited in his record bag.
Three rum and cokes later
everyone can do his job,
Can’t you get in my head and like, play it?
The front fans scream for Call Me Maybe,
He’s done.