The final makeover
Death becomes the fading idol
Better than mascara could
Not all of the good die young
Often though, the young die good.
The whippet-skinny roadie, Death
is ligging in your dressing room
Hanging round the stage and stairways
Twitchy like a virgin groom
Dine on doom you starstruck troupers
Death the pussycat will let you
Right until the feast is over
When the fortieth brandy gets you.
Death the drummer in your backline
Only makes the beat get stronger
Vita brevis in your biog
Guarantees your ars lives longa
Age the taxman, trims your fan-base
Quit before they drift away
Death, the first and last accountant
Won't object to how you pay
Shotgunned by a jealous lover
Cudgelled by a cult in Norway
Found with fruit and naff narcotics
Hanging from a hotel doorway
Better dead than out-of-cred
Portly on the comeback rota
Rocking on in spite of rancour
Far more sense to roll the motor
There beside you Death the groupie
In your Limo, horny, plastered
Immortality lies gagging.
Go on. Do it. Die ya bastard.