Lyrics:

Why is it all these fakers

Seem to nake the morning papers?

They're selling records by the million, seems so easy in my opinion

Lokk at the Jazz Star, he really needs some guts

Playing from seven to midnight, surviving on peanuts

Selling records by the dozen

Probably sold his tenor to make 'em

With artwork designed by his brother

And liner notes by his mother



Told what to do, miming to a tape

While a team of experts make sure you're looking great

Taking a limo to your own private bar

My God! I want to be a popstar!



Going to get on the T.V and go on dates with only the pretty

Maybe next year I'll pretend to be gay

I'll sell more records in a flash that way

Makes no difference if i look like a nut

Every kid in the world is going to copy my haircut

I'll advertise some trainers, maybe even a car

Shrewd product placement will gurantee I'm a star

An ugly guy will write my songs

Surley there is nothing wrong

Retiring when I'm 22

With a house a car and nothing to do



Instantaneous satisfaction it will be

Got no need for artistic credibility

With this attitude I'm bound to go far

My God! I want to be a popstar!



Where's the middle ground?

It's hard to make a living with you own true sound

What road am I going to tread?

What the hell would i do instead?



There may be no tours in Roma, or drug-induced designer coma

No teenage girls when show is over, I prefer my women older

Maybe I don't know what I'm talking about

Sometimes it would be nice to play a place and sell out

Driving to a gig in my brand new sports car

My God! I want to be a popstar!



Maybe its too easy, to move so quickly so far

Who wants to be a popstar?