In the mirror he checks his wig

the sideburns dark glasses

with the silver sides

checks the white suit

it's all in place

his heart lies heavy in Grace

land.

 

Though Elvis lies in a mausoleum

this English equivalent

works hard to survive -

 daily he works with carpets and flooring and

refreshes his throat with gargling fluid

to keep those dreams of the King alive.

 

The audience  a cage of blinding light

the rain is beating hard to come in

but with no real prospect on this sweltering night

the sweat's on his brow

with fear he can't hide.

 

The shudder and shake of the overture

the stage popping rivets, a curtain parts

and Elvis propels his brocaded body

into the arena of rock and schmaltz.

A bouncer stands like a sphinx at the back

while a tart down the front pulls back her hem

to claim the attention of a group of men.

 

He plucks a guitar from its dutiful stand

and sings a song of a beautiful land

where black and white and rich and poor

inherit the earth on equal terms

the listeners sway with their souls on fire

he leans just a little to increase desire,

then down on one knee (the one that hurts)

his face is a grimace but it looks just right.

 

After the show he drops his trousers

they collapse where he sits

the shit runs free

in the backstage loo that's two by three,

Elvis's spirit drifts out in the gloom

Elvis has finally left the room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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