Every hair upon your head
Has got to be in place for the camera.
Every place you happen to be
The people stare.
Cause, you are not the main attraction.
But oh, how you wanted to be.
Don’t equate each little thing
That happened in the past to the present.
Don’t expect each person to see
The things you see.
Do you ever think of anyone else?
Does concern come crossing your mind?
There’s enough conceit under your own belt
To last a lifetime.
If your dreams should ever come true,
I’ll see that spiteful face on the cover
Of a tabloid where the headline reads,
“She wants to be . . . “
Nothing but the main attraction.
But oh, how you wanted to be.
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