It’s hard to forget the road signs,

Emerging from the Memphis grey,

Electrified and hoisted up

To the edge of the stratosphere,

To counter the obsessives who

Came with telescopic ladders;

The copyright mark on the grave

(Was that usual? I don’t know);

The heaps of tacky souvenirs

In shops at the end of the Earth,

Where only the gas stations hear you;

The deodorised cheeseburgers;

The yellow brick road to Graceland

With ten facelifts from Montana;

The shrines of houses bought by fans,

All certain he was still alive;

In fact, each day there were reports

Of some supermarket sighting.

There would come a time, but not yet;

Hope, like hound dogs, springs eternal.