Jealously unjealously thanking unthanking lucky unlucky stars
Never got to make it to that revolving earthquake stage of rubble amplifiers and smashed up guitars.
Carrying no cash, cooped up in city hotel rooms, the drugs, the sex, marriage breakdowns and rock ‘n’ roll.
That’s the life to look up to, down on, know and not know.
Then there’s the art, the self-expression, the do whatever you will.
Far away from those jailer fans and the media front page kill-thrill.
No punching the clock, no money to save, no answering to the department head
and being free to die a quiet death to obituary broadsheets in your own bed.
All those part of the 27 club can’t get into old people’s homes with their membership card.
All those who lived long enough to sell out had to draw up a marketing plan on how to sell into being some sort of aging bard.
It’s still the dream of dreamers dreaming out their dreams
That, just like in other people’s pop lives, their biography will need reams and reams.