Inasmuch Wednesday would have been Elvis's 79th birthday. Following is a poem that I wrote in his memory.

THE KING!

I saw the Great Elvis today
encapsulated on film
written off and explained away
and I tried to cry,
cry for him or cry for me
or was there something else?
Or what is gone,
or never happened,
or will never be again
and is lost forever?

He was the shooting Star of the Fifties
when we were young
and he sroked my stirring adolescence.
He could sing,
Man could he sing!

He was profane

and so tough,
so right
and I loved the way he moved --
it was very Rock 'n Roll.

He excited me --

turned me on,
lit me up.
He was the first,
he broke through
and found new ground.

He defied past practice,

revolutionized an entire industry,
energized my whole generation,
Indeed, changed the world.

And then he was fat,

swollen with excess --
his perfect body abused with drugs,
his manhood cuckholded by a neglected wife.

And now he is dead
and I was betrayed.
He could sing,
Man could he sing.
He was THE KING