Elvis went to heaven babe,
died for all our sins,
the son of God its his killer flares,
sunglasses and sequins.
Well I believe there s poetry in the soul of every man,
in Fl ll fighters and Roberto Duran,
there s poetry in the leather that he wears like big mack trunks,
theres poetry in the little pictures drawn on a million bucks.
NAH NAH NA NA GOD AIN T
IN HIS HEAVEN NAH
NAH NA NA HES WEARING BLUE SUEDE SHOES
NAH NAH NA NA GOD AIN T IN HIS HEAVEN
NAH NAH NA NA AND ELVIS DIED FOR YOU.
There s poetry on the air babe,
sliding across the sky,
surfs right down on a radio wave and into my Hi Fi.
I believe there s poetry locked right up inside my skin,
tigers caged in the quantum zone and I here them sing.
Poetry howls like Ginsberg and raw plutonium,
everything is holy,
even the nuclear bomb.
NAH NAH NA NA GOD AIN T IN HIS HEAVEN
NAH NAH NA NA HE S WEARING BLUE SUEDE SHOES
NAH NAH NA NA GOD AIN T IN HIS HEAVEN
NAH NAH NA NA AND ELVIS DIED FOR YOU.
Poetry s under pressure sealed in an aerosol can,
splattered all around on the ghetto walls and the skid row
Ma Khayam s poetry dances on TV spins in the VCR.
Poetry s made in Scotland, they sell it behind the bar.....
the presence of the divine in the mundane, kind of .
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