Poems about Rock Stars, pt. 1
First, they were called “Southern Death Cult”.
“Too gloomy - not marketable enough”
droned record execs.
Then they tried “Death Cult”.
“Still too narrow in appeal - you need a more
accessible name. Do you want to sell
records or not?”
Lo, “The Cult”.
And it worked.
For a while. But the winds of
Fickle tastes blew.
Desperate, they were going to
“The Hard Rock Band”
but lawyers for both the
"Hard Rock Cafe"
Exasperated, The Cult (actually the two guys who were left) finally said “Fuck it! Let’s ride Harley’s in L.A. like Morrison did!”
And at that precise moment, somewhere in the world, a dog farted.