Whip cracking of bones as he takes his place
At the head of the end of the human race
He looks down at the mourners
No dry eye in the house
The flowers are dying
Like everything else
He ran a good race
But now he
Wants out

Swim up to heaven, swim up like a trout

He looks
Up above and
Who does he see but
Jimi and Freddie and Mr Presley
Each once had their fifteen minutes of fame
Lit up for a while like moths hitting a flame

New idols are made
More flickering stars
Each day someone buys
a six string guitar

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