The angels converged on the sequined Deity, who possessed the sardonic of wit of Walt Whitman and the hair style of fog horn leghorn. In spite of his handicapped hairdo the seraphim were lecherously close, trying to hear the thoughts of a divine genius. It seemed his chanting whispers must have been secrets from the morning star, the way they fiend for a fix of the prophets mind as he poe-ed…

“I am not gonna sing about a Prissy“

“I am not gonna sing about a Prissy“

“I am not gonna sing about a Prissy“
His internal dialogue repeated.

Reason gave way to infatuation, as the blissful smoke in the Las Vegas showroom parted like starcrossed lovers, when he exhaled the last bit of smoke from his marlboro funeral pyre and spoke to his subjects.

“ THIS IS A SONG ABOUT A PRISCILLA “

Then the angels wept before the King of Rock n’ Roll.