I have a dreadful secret and it makes me want to cry.
Outside I’ve got street spirit but inside I’m high and dry.
You might be optimistic but don’t be in any doubt:
this spectre scratches at my chest and threatens to fade out.
I walk bedecked in bishop’s robes, a trickster in the town,
but if you pulled the ripcord my facade would be let down.
It leaves me all in limbo and demolishes my cred:
although I seem a cool kid, I don’t like Radiohead.
While others call them genius I find their tunes a chore.
It gives me an ill wind; it’s like a wolf is at my door.
It leaves me feeling paranoid when others preach their class;
apart from ‘Creep’ and ‘Karma Police’ I simply can’t be arsed.
I think it sounds all scatterbrained. I dislike Thom Yorke’s voice.
You say it’s like molasses but it doesn’t make me moist.
I get it, they’re original and technical pioneers;
my brain retains this knowledge but it doesn’t sate my ears.
Perhaps I’m just a tourist and I need to make amends
but honey, I can’t help it if their songs give me the bends.
So go on, get your knives out and them hold them to my throat:
I’d rather listen to the bleatings of a billy goat.
Yes take your chant of ‘burn the witch’ and say it to my face.
To me their music’s like a jigsaw falling out of place.
Just call me an imposter, or an android, if you choose
but I’m not a fan of Radiohead. And also I hate Muse.