Why don't you even give me a passing glance?
I want you to see all that I can be.

Your attention please.
Did you notice that I was over here tickling keys?
Oh, and would you like to see a cartwheel?
Roundoff, backflip, yeah, son, I got skills.
Did I mention that I rap and play drums too?
Oh, you listened and you think I'm wack and I'm uncool?
Well, this sycophant is sorry to disappoint.
But I tried really hard, can I at least get a brownie point?
I'm always stressing about how to impress them.
Well, I guess I'm not; but I'll keep trying
'cause I'm a showoff.
Your attention, please.
Your attention, please,
because I'm a showoff.

If it was a way that I could make you feel better,
I'd attend a knitting class just to stitch you a sweater.
And that ain't 'cause you're kin; you're not my best friend---
you're an acquaintance on whom I want to make an impression.
Or you didn't know what I was capable of making,
so I sat down and painted a vivid illustration.
Funny thing is: it didn't illustrate much---
it was a lucky thirteen of super sweet strokes with a broad brush.
Then I remembered what it was like when I first started writing---
progressing chords in strange orders; it was exciting.
Nonsense lyrics I felt were a bit of a cop-out,
so I made up new ones guaranteed to be a knockout
to any fella who ever figured that he knew me.
I got so choosy 'bout what I let this music, my muse, be.
It had to reflect who I was, not just the sounds that I create.
That morning, sans window, I could smell it was a grade A gray day.

If you're wondering what that entails.
I should warn you that it might remind you of snails.
Imagine the sky is not bright, and not wide.
It's closed in, all holes been coloured in by wet gray---
it's a dull day.
But it's my type; the air has a flavour
like sweet melancholy-flower in nature.
It's like the world is a beautifully boring canvas
on which I dab drably with creative handses.
And you should know that I am just a showoff.
Your attention please.
Your attention please.
I am just a showoff.