There are an estimated
            four hundred thousand
Elvis impersonators on Earth, and that’s
            not all. By 2043, if the number
of Elvii grows
            at the same rate as that of the 70s, we will all
be kings. I could be
            him, sure; I could move
my hips yeah I could sing my blue notes
            yeah yeah. There’s not much to it,
they’ll say, and isn’t that what we’ve wanted to hear
            all along? When they come

they will already
            be like that: Uh ha oh
baby. They will part their hands
            at altars across
America, comb flat their sideburns, legions
            of hound dogs, girl, girl,
girl, girl,
 
 
            and we’ll look at their sleeping

forms in the moonlight; we’ll want

            to abandon them, we’ll want them

to carry us lightyears away.