ELVIS AARON PRESLEY
His followers journeyed
From far across the seas,
For their beloved icon
Was where they longed to be.
Born in Tupalo, in a shotgun shack
A one-room house
That was never a home,
All they had to eat were crumbs.
Yet somehow the family got by
Their love for each other
Just could not die.
As a father, he ruled supreme
The father of the century,
He would have given his life
And given up his fame
If only he'd been asked to
By young Lisa Marie.
For to Elvis his daughter
Was his everything,
His reason for living
His inspiration to sing.
A million singers ape his style
Not one has his talent,
He's the king of music
The rock and roll messiah!
An idol while living
A legend now he's gone,
A singer who a legion say
Can never be wrong,
His fame keeps on growing
And will ever be strong.
He had many women in his life
And for a while, he took a wife,
But company perhaps was
His single greatest need.
His beloved mother's death
Had left him badly scarred,
The only thing his lovers really desired
Was a piece of his fame,
To share in his name and
Sleep with a megastar.
The great man inspired
A million artists,
You can detect his style
In a billion discs,
Writers are still penning
Many songs about him,
A million years from now
His discs will be playing,
For this man's great legend
Can never ever die.
A billion people mourned his death
The passing of his final breath,
I'd write an ode
And with music too,
As a final salute to
This glorious man.
However, poetry is
My chosen field,
But I know that Elvis
Would surely understand.
THE END
© Copyright 2021, Philip Roberts
Melbourne, Victoria, Australia
About this poem
Written soon after the death of Elvis in August 1977.
Font size:
Written on 1977
Submitted by PHIL_ROBERTS on August 30, 2021
- 1:32 min read
- 3 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | AXXB XXXXCDC XBEFGBDHHH IXXJHXXKHK EEXALXMFND MXIXHXXHNC LLXGGXXXXX XXJ |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic trimeter |
Characters | 1,538 |
Words | 303 |
Stanzas | 8 |
Stanza Lengths | 4, 7, 10, 10, 10, 10, 10, 3 |
Translation
Find a translation for this poem in other languages:
Select another language:
- - Select -
- 简体中文 (Chinese - Simplified)
- 繁體中文 (Chinese - Traditional)
- Español (Spanish)
- Esperanto (Esperanto)
- 日本語 (Japanese)
- Português (Portuguese)
- Deutsch (German)
- العربية (Arabic)
- Français (French)
- Русский (Russian)
- ಕನ್ನಡ (Kannada)
- 한국어 (Korean)
- עברית (Hebrew)
- Gaeilge (Irish)
- Українська (Ukrainian)
- اردو (Urdu)
- Magyar (Hungarian)
- मानक हिन्दी (Hindi)
- Indonesia (Indonesian)
- Italiano (Italian)
- தமிழ் (Tamil)
- Türkçe (Turkish)
- తెలుగు (Telugu)
- ภาษาไทย (Thai)
- Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
- Čeština (Czech)
- Polski (Polish)
- Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
- Românește (Romanian)
- Nederlands (Dutch)
- Ελληνικά (Greek)
- Latinum (Latin)
- Svenska (Swedish)
- Dansk (Danish)
- Suomi (Finnish)
- فارسی (Persian)
- ייִדיש (Yiddish)
- հայերեն (Armenian)
- Norsk (Norwegian)
- English (English)
Citation
Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:
Style:MLAChicagoAPA
"ELVIS AARON PRESLEY" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2023. Web. 26 Mar. 2023. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/108154/elvis-aaron-presley>.
Discuss this Phil Roberts poem with the community:
Report Comment
We're doing our best to make sure our content is useful, accurate and safe.
If by any chance you spot an inappropriate comment while navigating through our website please use this form to let us know, and we'll take care of it shortly.
Attachment
You need to be logged in to favorite.
Log In