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Thomas H. Huxley

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Four Chords That Made a Million
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Six of one a half a dozen
Black guitars and plastic blues
Hide behind a wall of nothing
Nothing said and nothing new
 
Four chords that made a million
 
You belong there on the cover
You are the emperor in new clothes
A man who thinks he owns the future
Will sell your vacuum with his prose
 
Four chords that made a million
 
And then a moron with a check book
Will take you out to lunch who knows?
He will tell you you're a savior
And then he'll drop you like a stone
 
Four chords that made a million
 
And I have tried and I have died
Trying to get through
But in the end I can't defend you.
 
Four chords that made a million