A Prayer For An Old Rocker.

Dear Gods Of Rock And Roll

....grant my dreams

let me re-run the reals of my life,

edit out the bad scenes

turn them all into celluloid splendor,

make me someone the world will remember.

Grant new skills on that tool of my trade

as I rise from my years in hope's gutter

from it's dust covered face,

let each note rise with grace

to enhance my existence

for so long debased

with songs that once

died with a sputter.

Chorus-

I would pawn my very soul to touch

the hems of Earth's great stars,

then burst Nova like.... scalding ever so hot

burning bright for the crowds near and far

till my meteor tumbles to its cherished plot.

'neath a rock monument freshly quarried

where fans leave me beers and scribble sad dirges

in a tribute to my passing glory...

Erase all those years I've spent spewing

endless blues mixed with black velvet shots

into omni-directional microphones

in some back alley dives, filling slots.

drowning all of my pain in my deep baritones,

giving all I that had.... to have not.

Re-mold and re-master my sweet aspirations

into platinum discs that most surely will straighten

my bent, wearied spine, till I step forth to hold

splendid rock extravaganzas on stages of gold.

Chorus-

I'd pawn my very soul to touch

the hems of Earth's great stars,

then burst like a Nova.... scalding ever so hot

burning bright for the crowds near and far

till my meteor tumbles to its cherished plot.

'neath a rock monument freshly quarried

where fans will leave beers and scribble sad dirges

in a tribute to my passing glory...

Bridge-

All I've known now for years

is my empty T.V.

but I've longed

to have known M.T.V.

as my battered Les Paul

bids my fingers to leap

over bridges without any frets,

weaving brilliance in songs

that most surely will set

feet to feverish dances of glee.

Grant me escape from fames long delays

freed from my "had a chance"

and my "has beens" days

to the thrills of the glitter,

the glam, and the babes,

bring the rush of applause and that media praise,

donning tight leather pants, hair in curls disarrayed,

in a rise to new worlds of admiring glances

taking rebel-like poses, and long catwalk prances.

With the swagger of Jagger, or the next Robert Plant,

aging flesh, resurrected, my new mantra...my rant

lest I lie down to rot in a poor man's silk coffin

in a boom box of silenced bones, known far too often

it's a simple request for the powers that be,

let me Rock, let me Roll, make a star out of me.

Art-Whimsically Yours Studio

MFB III Productions-(c)-2011