And even if some shows were lame,
The crowd sill lapped it up the same,
Big Don flew in a private jet,
And settled up his gambling debts.
His placid bird worked like a trooper,
In a hapless drugged up stupor....

And then one fateful August night,
The Elvis bird did not feel right,
He tried to sleep but felt quite ill,
He ordered up some sleeping pills,
And a giant bowl of nuts,
To try to ease his grizzled guts.
He drifted off but woke again,
The drugs careering round his brain.
He told his girlfriend with a groan,
He’s going to go and skim a stone.
To woodwork class to make a stool,
To drop the kids off by the pool!
But on his throne he wasn’t able,
To lay his very kingly cable!
Not even one last regal fart,
As he scanned ‘Exchange and Mart.’

His birdy veins all blocked with junk,
And Royal stomach locked with gunk,
The King fell off his throne and died,
And all around the world they cried.
All, that is, except for Don,
For whom the party just went on.
For though the Elvis Bird departed,
Donald’s work had barely started,
The Kind live on as licensed tat,
Donald has made sure of that.
‘He’s worth more now that his is dead,’
At least that’s what the experts said.

Now: The Myth (1977-the present)
So many years have now gone by,
Since the Elvis Bird did die.
His ageing fans sill wait in line,
His gilded cage is now a shrine.
Donald’s joined the Elvis bird,
The horrid, cunning little turd!

Continued: Part 4