The Ballad of Denim Elvis

He buttoned up his aging soul
And packed it off to Idaho,
Where teardrops fell upon the soil.
He slicked his hair, all smeared with oil;
The chopper roared beneath his ass
Clad tight with denim, shake, and sass
He threw on a helmet, masked his pain,
But he’d taken his shot, there was no shame.

For the man called Denim Elvis
There’s nowhere left to go,
And nothing but toil in the potato fields
Of Boise, Idaho.

A rainstorm beat upon the plain,
Cut deep, but could not kill the flame
That in his heart stood stout and full
And held aloft his iron will.
He’d plow those fields, he’d show them all,
Hold caution up against the wall.
The jeers were distant echoes now,
No longer threatened by the sound

Was the man called Denim Elvis,
‘cus there’s nowhere left to go
But to a simple life in the potato fields
Of Boise, Idaho.

The farm was still and cold that night,
The moon was slung real low.
He laced a poncho ‘round his neck
And walked against the flow
Of wind that slapped him forcefully,
Cast poison in his eyes,
Wrapped a noose around his neck
And cinched a deadly tie,

But the man called Denim Elvis slipped
Away from such a bitter end.
He tossed aside a shredded rope
And, free, he stood before a friend
Who handed him a golden hoe
And set him on a different path.
The cheers had drifted silent now,
But he could only shrug and laugh,

For the man called Denim Elvis
Did fortune and fame let go,
So he smiled and dug into the soil
Of Boise, Idaho.

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