#47: Backstage Mass (Idolatry)

And Now A Personal No-it
To Those Who Choose To Dough-et
Upon The God-Like Po-ets
Who Don't Know Shit, And Show It!
Or:
A Little Fart-4 Down Seventy-Six.

Fan, fan . . . I'm your man,
larger than life when I began,
an agent-hatched charlatan,
proud to play your Peter Pan.
I need you on my caravan,
'cause the more you think of who I am,
the less you'll see that you, too, can
learn a trick and grow it.

It's a midnight ride for all revered
'til fame's sonlight has fully seared
all the saints and those they reared,
the children who are paired and peered,
who follow fads, both faked and feared,
who always rode, and never steered,
and behind the guitar grenadier,
who hates the stadium's loving stare . . .
those fainting in the highest tier,
drunk because they got so near,
the gods remember the fans are dear,
and they also serve, who sit and cheer!

Load To Greatsland:

His heart thumbed over the final page
while he sat and took a shit with rage,
"Why can't they see that center stage
is just a well-lit, barless cage?"
And then, Elvis checked outta here!