Analysis of Blues

The very day Bob Dylan dies,
princes will turn into toads,
and all blacks are dyed in white.
The moon girds its armor loads.

Bourbon will get the taste of mud,
Whores will grimly close their lips.
Ponytails will all be cut.
Even the Eiffel tower flips.

What they sell, is exploding cigars.
The Ice Age gets triggered yet.
Women bear monkeys from Mars.

Plenty lampoons on the internet.
They’re smashing all guitars,
no longer for sale they’ll be dead.   

For Roland Vancampenhout