What's the Sound of One Fan Clapping?

David's his name and songs are his game
We grew up together; two birds of a feather

He asked me to watch him play guitar
at a Mexican Restaurant not so far
from home, why not I thought and agreed
As I had a night to fill and a mouth to feed

So I drove over to Pueblo Viejo
Where the waitress es bonita, but the bartender muy feo
There he was David, jamming and singing
Old rock tunes that set my bells ringing
I ordered a margarita with salt on the rim
and ate chips and salsa while listening to him
play the Beatles and Dylan
While I was eating and chillin'

Over time, I noticed a repetition
of deafening silence after each rendition
In fact the only sound I could hear
was my own clapping hands, the sole cheer
offered to Dave for his solo gig
while each patron ate like a pig
and failed to acknowledge his presence
As if his music lacked the essence
to garner even a second clap
From a young lady or old chap

No one cheered, no one booed
They just ignored and ate their food
They drank cerveza and talked
Then paid their bills and walked
without a word of thanks to the man
So I decided to become his biggest fan!

I clapped and whistled; hollered and cheered
Each time louder, every time he appeared
My voice went horse as I got as drunk
as the proverbial plastered skunk

Dave's set was over and he walked to the bar
Where I was seated, too drunk by far
to say much but, "great show, but the crowd sucks."
"I'm the only one who gave two fucks!"

"What's the sound of one fan clapping?"
"Me cheering you while those fools were napping."
Dave looked at me with disdain
Like an ulcer caused him pain

"Those fools can ignore me all they want.
I'm practicing in public at this restaurant.
I don't need a cheerleader, thank you Jim."
I had never seen this ungrateful side to him.

I left the pub and drove off in a mood
Pissed off at Dave and his patrons brood
I never really liked his music anyway
I prefer to watch drunk women sing karaoke