The Occidental

A yellow moon is rising among flour-dusting stars,

these pinpricks are outshining the beams of passing cars

while red-tips trace constellations in the smoke of roadside bars.

See, the razor in my pocket is the answer to the blues,

'cause Elvis swapped to rhinestones from his baby-blue suede shoes

when Buddy fell from heaven and we heard it on the news.

Ike became un-likeable, we got Johnny-on-the-Spot,

at eleven miles an hour we all heard the lucky shot.

Then we all dropped out together in the sweetest fug of pot

rising from the ashtray in a resurrective smoke.

Pyres on the skyline - we heard the country choke

while the Watcher died laughing at his tragi-cosmic joke.