by William Heath
After the game there is always
a soc hop in the gym: we dance
the stroll, the funky slop, the jitterbug,
the bunny-hop, and still find time
to twist and shout. Bill Halley, a kiss
curl on his forehead, starts us all
rocking around the clock, girls wet
their pants screaming at a fat man,
weighed down by diamonds, who
finds his thrill on Blueberry Hill,
the Everly Brothers singing “Wake up,
Little Susie,” Ricky Nelson of the
dreamy bedroom eyes, Little Richard
of the foot-high flattop, Jerry Lee Lewis
mangling his piano, pretty boy Frankie
Avalon in suit and tie asking Venus
to enter his lonely life, but most of all at
Elvis of the swivel hips and kiss me lips,
putting down his friends as hound dogs
while making the jailhouse rock,
and we all cry when Buddy Holly and
the Big Bopper perish in a plane crash.
Yet, contra Don McLean’s “American Pie,”
to this day the music never dies.