Elvis at the Wheel

There's an independent bookstore

The last one that remains

All those others you might look for

Have been eaten by the chains

They soldier on

No one cleans the window panes

It was there I read the story

So strange it must be real

Of a car in Arizona

With Elvis at the wheel

He's looking up

The sky has something to reveal

It is the face of Josef Stalin

That is formed by drifting clouds

Above the sleeping Memphis mafia

And unsuspecting cows

This is a sign from God! It's plain

This is a sign that nothing he does for the rest of his life

Will be the same

It's a medieval moment

A religious episode

He is shaking in his footsteps

On the dusty desert road

His entourage are nervous

And subdued

How must it be to feel such passion?

To be caught up in the thrall

In some unfathomable fashion

Like a pink and black St. Paul?