viva las vegas

My Dad’s not very successful,
At least not by today’s standards.
 
He lives in an apartment
With his psycho girl friend
 
Who freaks out if you forget
To close the cupboard doors.
 
They share the rent
In a lower-middle-class neighborhood
 
Where stoners drive firebirds
And still live with their parents
 
At Thirty-Seven.
 
My Dad drinks alot
But he’s a good drunk.
 
Always sayin’ how proud he is of us,
And how much he loves us.
 
He likes to play the piano
And sing Elvis Presley songs.
 
People say he looks like “The King,”
They ask if he impersonates.
 
“Aw shucks Ma’am,” he says
In his best Southern-drawl
 
Lip-curled, blushing,
And shyly turning his head.
 
People say he could do shows
And make lots o’money;
 
Be a star with as many fans
As there are stars in the universe.
 
He could have a big Limo and house
Of his own in a better neighborhood,
 
But that’s not for him.
He doesn’t want that kind of success.
 
He just wants to make enough
To pay the rent,
Buy the beer,
 
And tell us over his
“Viva Las Vegas” record,
 
How much he loves us.

 

BD 1992

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