False Idol
He was a natural; a class clown since day one of kindergarten
Had them rolling in the aisles like an avalanche was starting
'Fun Bobby' he was nicknamed, so he skipped to the stage
At 16 in open mic nights to rousing critical praise
He lit a spark in peoples hearts so they flocked to his flames
The truths he spoke ignited hope like the damned being saved
Soon the agents came a-calling like disciples to a prophet
Booking venues coast to coast so he'd recite for a profit
Bus tours were nationwide, without a single place to hide
The stage lights cast no shadow on the self hate inside
No surprise, his depression was like his stand up; perfect
As the greatest kindness often comes from those who feel worthless
His fame grew like a tumour; more people rushed to his churches
To hear a God of comedy's sermons as they emptied their purses
His nerves were violin strings, a sweet tune that kept him maudlin
His 3rd special was a sell out...
...then Hollywood came calling
Passed around like a cultist's pamphlets, the tickets were sold
His performances turned a silver screen to shades of gold
The box office was unlocked by this gifted Pandora
And Oscars gifted his halo as 'Best New Performer'
Paparazzi chased him down like wolves smelling blood
To put the doubt in every Thomas that his heart was truly good
Tabloids put every niggling detail under a magnifying glass
To get a rise from the dove of hope, in hope he'd fly and crash
His behaviour became erratic; public dismissed it as eccentric
Especially since every psalm he spoke was bliss and electric
Turned a virtual hermit; his agent's statements were measured
As he wandered around his lonely estate like a barren desert
For 40 weeks; his food was ash and wine the blood of the lamb
'til a divine revelation placed his fate into his hands
One more movie; his last, 'His best!' would be the posthumous reviews
3 days of silence at the wrap up turned his home into a tomb
And like Judas; his neighbour found him at the Redbud tree
Sombre slumber; his expression, death had set him free
Fame's snakes had claimed another soul to break for a cheque
And the truth was in the scrawled sign draped round his neck
'Here hangs a false idol, forgive me father, I have sinned
They praised a man, not a messiah, nothing divine within
I've thought this through; there's only one way I will win
To strike my own image down...
God is dead...
I killed him.'