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in my day iíve been called unforgivably vain

with a special affinity, for the reflecting pane

but itís not my demeanor, my smile or my eyes

through which i seek my prize

no itís back-to-the-mirror where i get my laughs

musing on what my accusers would see

if truly they could see through me

as i pour out my song for this intimate crowd

they can hardly imagine, a time i was well-endowed

with bravado befitting the range of my schemes

no more, nor less, it seems

so itís back-to-the-mirror where i make my stand

shining, transparent, yet fully in view

where they can find me just like you

and itís back to the mirror, my image is free

of wrinkles and blemishes

itís just as well nobody else can see

at the end of my set iíll meander backstage

where the answer will come to me, silent, beyond the rage

and that ìpieceî of my soul will be differently spelled

no grief to buy nor sell

for itís back-to-the-mirror where iíll take my rest

casting the limelight that never found me

through what then seemed eternity

and itís back to the mirror, my image is free

of wrinkles and blemishes

itís just as well nobody else can see

yes itís back-to-the-mirror where i get my laughs

musing on what my accusers would see

if truly they could see through me