Rock and Roll Apocalypse (Tom Waits style)

On the radio someone is screamin’

about the imminent falling of the moon,
and outside these paper thin walls

the howlin’ wind is rippin’ trees to timber.
The coffee is hot but the night is dark
and I drink with a certain reluctance
because now I know that the time is short
before I stand condemned.

John Lennon’s ghost is marching

through the rain swept streets tonight
with a golden trumpet in his right hand

and the keys to a Mercedes in his left.
The herald of the new age of love
never quite knew what he believed.
He believed it all and not at all,
and then he was no more.

And as anyone anywhere can tell you,

the Rolling Stones will never die,
they’ve already been taken straight to heaven

along with the Lizard King Morrison.
Kurt Cobain was there to greet them
still holding that goddamned shotgun
“Welcome,” he said, “to eternity,
but I think this might be hell.”

It’s a marvelous night for a moondance
with the stars faillin’ out of the sky,
a fantabulous night for the apocalypse
‘neath the collapse of nations and kings.
The night is magic but when the spell’s been cast
only dreams of death will survive,
and no amount of chanting will repair
a circle that has been broken.
 

The ringing in your ears now
is the sounding of the trumpet of the Lord
and the sky is about to be cracked
like a boiled lobster’s shell.
The show is over, the end has come;
it’s time for our final reward.
The heavenly choir has sung the last encore.
It’s the rock and roll apocalypse.