The
Rock And Roll Memoir I Want To Read
It was too damn loud
I never liked Bo Bo
our first drummer
or
was he the third?
The riffs?
Stolen.
Lyrics written
by a callow youth
still torment me
to this day like a
s
w
a r
m
o f
w
e t
b
e
e
s.
My obituary
a bit of boilerplate
written by interns
at Rolling
Stone
lays waiting
patiently
for the call.
I don’t remember
in any particular
order
the origin
of the band name
the outcomes
of
the lawsuits
what happened
in Houston
penning
“Love Carburetor”
on the bare
bum
of a groupie
named Skyyy
writing
a song cycle
about
the Laps riding
in ambulances
limos
helicopters
or
punching
Bill
Graham
on the sidewalk
in front of
the Fillmore
East.
If you say
we played Farm Aid
twice, well
I guess you would know.
I can’t piss
standing up
or hear a word
you’re saying
and my doctor says
we must get
a handle on my liver
before we think
about replacing my
knees
hips
corneas
heart and lungs.
But I’m booked
to a ten night stand
at the Beacon
with the New York Philharmonic
performing our first album
in its entirety
with our original bassist Ian
somebody or other
plus interviews
on Fresh Air and Morning Joe
to promote a concert
film by Jim Jarmusch.
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