We were drinking one Friday night
in a tacky bar in Ukachuk, Nebraska,
Jim Morrison, Elvis & I,
we talked of politics & religion,
of music & art & philosophy,
& of sequined suits & rhinestone
studded cars,
& we all agreed
living obscurity was better than
dead fame,
then Elvis threw up
& Morrison pissed on the floor,
so I slipped out the door, saying
I needed a bit of a breather,
sticking them with the tab.
Breathing deep the cool air,
I shook my head & vowed never
to drink with the dead again,
not even the living dead, &
I walked off into the night.
