As I was driving homewards in the dusk of Tennessee,
I spied a darkling figure that waved a hand to me,
I stopped, he came and whispered low, Good sir, I need a hand,
I am a lonely traveller and I'm headed for Graceland.
We drove off both together just as the sun, it set,
The car was bathed in flaming red, a spectral Corvette,
The traveller sang a baleful song, beneath the pale blue moon,
Oh, drive me fast to Graceland, sir, I need to get there soon.
The miles flew by, the night birds sang, and hound dawgs howled the blues,
My passenger did fret and strut, and tap his blue suede shoes,
And then we saw the Graceland lights, I said, my friend, we're here.
The rooster birds have not yet crowed, there is no need to fear.
He ran a comb through blue-black hair and smiléd with his eyes,
I am no ghost, he quietly said, no phantom of the skies,
Then why the Ten'see midnight trek to Graceland 'fore the dawn?
I work here on the morning shift, he said with stifled yawn,
And striding swift along the drive he turned to me and smiled,
Then vanished through the kitchen door. I was a trifle riled.
Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved