I am just an actor and my story's often told.
I've been written up in fanzines
For a pocket full of PR, shameless articles.
White lies at best -
Still a fan hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest.
When the show was cancelled I was no more than a boy.
In the company of strangers.
In the quiet of convention green rooms, paying bills.
Laying low.
Seeking out the fannish quarters where the costumed people go.
Looking into faces mothers wouldn't know.
And the red shirts die.
Lie la lie lie lie la lie.
Asking only extra's wages I go looking for a role.
But I get no offers.
I've been typecast by the who*es on Wilshire Blvd.
I do declare, there were times when I was so desperate
I did commercials there.
Five curtain calls -
Once I had a real career.
Five curtain calls -
Now all I do is cut the tape at new shopping malls.
So I'm trying to reach my agent,
But I always find him gone -
He's never home
Just another ten-percenter always bleeding me
Misleading me from my home.
In the dry ice stands an actor and a player by his trade.
And he carries the reminders
Of every script that laid him low and cut him -
Til he cried out, in his anger and his shame
By Grabthar's Hammer I am leaving!
But the Actor still remains.
Will Guy die?
Lie la lie lie lie la lie.
Will Guy die?
Lie la lie lie lie la lie.
Well the red shirts die!