The driver manual stares at me,
A cold, blank stare.
As I listen to one of Jim Morrison's lectures,
He says for sure he wasn't there.
It's kind of hard to pay attention,
I've got an old, crippled ghost of a malcontent chasing me,
Who insists I pull the sail.
I've got Joey and Tommy throwing some kind of invisible apparatus around me,
And I must request a discontinuation of the such.
Then there's DeeDee and Johnny with Vonnegut neckties with ankles in chains,
And an arctic drowning pool that glistens, oh so much!
I start feeling dizzy,
As there's fifteen years of revolutionary music, classic interviews and embarrassing photos,
Laughing and staring me down in a decade of dominance.
Standing in the Microsoft House Of Madness on Ashbury St. in Los Angeles Or San Francisco,
Where ever the tribes do that Sunday dance.
The spirits of Rock will surely come down to evaluate,
Oh, God help us with your pineapple steel shelve handles and your four limited-edition versions of love.
As I gawk at the gaudy Hotel California, the Eagles will surely soar soon to steal my soul,
Then right outside it floods bleach and Zirconium which was surely the request of executioners from above.
All of the sudden I'm back in class being lectured by Jim Morrison,
And with help from John Lennon they simply reminisce about disco balls from Studio 54.
I only wish I was with Cobain talking about all the drugs he's done as we choke down that salasso tea,
With Novoselic doing a Western-style jig on an Eastern-style floor.
And let's not forget about Dave with his Dali style motor scooter and his writings on what he'd love to do...