Jenny repined, at five years old,
“There’s nothing happening here at all!”
Her eyes were dry, her feet were cold.
“So happen now!” That’s what she told
the wall.
And Lisa, a chaste and pious gal,
went mute at “in excelsis Deo”
and left behind her sacred cow
to take up with a crooning pal -
her shiny radio.
Candy next door picked up those waves
transmitting all that fine, fine music.
Like Sirens that Ulysses craves,
she would have donned its very staves
to drench herself and infuse with it.
And Stephanie, within a pall
of high school absences and tardies,
heard Nico sing – slim, blond and tall –
then left her home and school and all
in time to catch tomorrow’s parties.
They grieve now, ‘neath a ticking clock,
the passing of that New York mole,
who scavenged precious, mislaid schlock
and handed it back from block to block
to kids whose lives were saved by rock ‘n roll.