(written in the voice of Johnny Depp)

I get sick of it, man,
the whispering,
the stares,
people who only talk about the money.

And as I walk into this
hotel, one of those posh ones
where they have hardwood floors
instead of the cheap plush carpet
with coffee stains and cigarette burns,
people stare
like I'm some trophy, man.

And I feel their eyes trying
to bore into me, to rip me open,
spill my brain
onto the oak planks,
and prod at it, poke at it,
see if it moves.
The media hounds
come, sniffing, leaving
a trail of blood and guts
that people stare at,
fascinated with the horror,
the way they stare
at a car wreck,
and then leave it
for someone else to
clean up.

And I just grab something, and
smash it, man.
It's one of those
Oriental-style vases; the big
ones that stand in the corner,
holding bamboo, or something.
It feels good, right
to smash things.

The people start to back away
like I'm someone gone insane, and I'm
gripping a piece of that damn vase
like a dagger. I grin
as the police come,
sirens on, lights flashing.
I even hold out my hands as some kid
comes, dangling the cuffs
from shaking fingers.
You'd think they'd never arrested a
"ce-le-bri-ty"
before.

Sitting on one of those cheap benches
they bolt against the cinderblock
I think, At least I got an empty cell.