The Art of Patrons Fucked Up

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"Eurycles, I am broken"
The disciple smiles in disgust
The Satyrs have awoken
And things aren't here to be discussed

We traded the privilege for scraps
Exchanged for the clothes on our backs
Lived life like there was no other way

What was sacrosanct
Now the sacred is profane
We yearn for the thanks
But deserve all the blame

A simple piece of stagecraft
A tawdry parlour trick
We traded our moral ground so they could sing along

But is it so bad?
Is it as dark as it seems?
To trade a little purity to prolong the dream?

One by one we will find a way to let each and every one down

It's the privilege of mass delusion