The Ebbing

What’s that bands name,
What’s that haunting refrain.
Doesn’t seem to matter much,
What’s a transmission without a clutch

Joe used to sing about being together,
And Kurt used to sing like dreary weather.
The Dropkicks sing of the brass taps and wood,
Everybody takes a chance at ole’ Johnny B Good

Headphones on, half obscured by my hood,
Not turned loud, at least not as much as I could.
The banjo drives the drumming of nervous fingers,
That A chord rang out, but now it seems to just linger.

The poets stir with complexity of thought and phrase
How many are there surviving honestly these days.
The whole concept gone stale and loose in stays,
Bob Dylan gets on Sirius and opulently prays.

Stevie stopped the clock with a sound check,
God has arthritis and tinnitus, so does Beck
So the cream settles finally languishing,
Not much left, scarce little to bring.

Lemmy went out quietly, but found dignity
In a world so plastic tweety and shitty.
The rhythm section survived the fall,
There’s still Ringo and still Paul.