Punk rocker.

A boy was born nine years today,
he is given but one gift
no toys, no games for him to play
but a guitar to grant his wish.

The boy is fifteen years today
he was nine when his fingers bled
he is a rocker born and made
writing songs inside his head

Now a man and twenty-three
he's losing site of fame
will he quit to feed the family,
or try and beat this game?

Thirty now and getting old
but the record deal is signed
thirty cents per CD sold
but for his dream this is fine.

Thirty-five and world renowned
he thinks he's doing fine
but with alcohol and drugs he's drowned
he's almost lost his mind.

Forty years of life have gone
he's remembered his life goal
not to be a rich rocker stoned
but a punk who has a soul.

His life is gone, his tombstone set
he's six feet under-ground
loved by kids he's never met
the man who defined sound