If You Can't Come Around, at Least Please Telephone
In the past when he's been sighted with his blacked out hips a-shakin,'
the worst has been a bridge that budged, the screech of cars a 'brakin',
but now he's twitched the turf to twain, the very coast is quakin'.
We warned him that a Jailhouse Rock when belted from below
would rip terrestrial moorings out and cause the lid to blow,
but the King has got this crazy itch he's got to scratch and so:
He cranked the amps and ramped the shank,the strings began to wail.
He didn't give a rip about the funky sonic gale.
The blue suede night shade and the love me tender kale
were itching like the fuzzy tree and swaying to the beat.
Our tongues were tied, our cups were buttered, we were feeling heat
cause we heard the seismic rumble from the heart of Lonely Street.
The street cars cart wheeled, all the seas gang dry,
The birds in Blackpool kissed their palms as he wiggled highty-high:
Don't want no other love, girls, I'm singing good-good-bye.
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