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​She's A Terrible Artist

This song is by Honest Bob and the Factory-to-Dealer Incentives and appears on the album Deal of the Century (2013).

I met her on the subway, she asked me what I do
I said that I sing in a band, and she said, "Hey, I do that too!"
She said her band was playing out next Tuesday at 9:00
So I went out to see her, but I was in for a shock

Well, I'm no Pavarotti, but she was ten times worse
And half the crowd had fled before she finished half a verse
I don't want to insult her, but the girl ain't got no culture
With a face like an angel and a voice like a vulture

'Cause she's a terrible singer, but she thinks she can sing
With her voice alone she has caused untold suffering
She asked me how I liked it, and I didn't say a thing
She's a terrible, terrible singer, and she's mine

Now the singing stuff was bad enough, but there was worse to come
She painted with an arm that must have been completely numb
She showed me this new landscape that she had just done with oils
But it looked more like a meatloaf a couple days after it spoils

'Cause she's a terrible painter, but she thinks she can paint
She thinks she's the next Picasso, but I can assure you that she ain't
She asked me how I liked it, and I said, "I feel faint"
She's a terrible, terrible painter, and she's mine

I'm glad that she's the creative type
And she expresses what's in her heart
But I'd rather eat a plate of tripe
Than take one more look at her art

It was then that I made the worst mistake of my romantic career
She asked if I wanted to read her new novel, and I said, "Absolutely, dear"
She said that of all her artistic endeavors she thought this one was the best
So I sat down to read it, and I think you know the rest

She's a terrible writer, but she thinks she can write
Against her powers, grammar and spelling can't even put up a fight
She asked me how I liked it, and I said it was all right
She's a terrible, terrible writer, and she's mine

She's a terrible sculptor, but she thinks she can sculpt
If I had my way all her papier-mâché would immediately be pulped
She asked me how I liked it, and I just smiled and gulped
She's a terrible, terrible sculptor, and she's mine

She's a terrible dancer, but she thinks she can dance
She writhes around like someone just poured pudding down her pants
She asked me if I'd join her, and I said, "Not a chance"
She's a terrible, terrible dancer, and she's mine
She's a terrible, terrible artist, and she's mine all mine