The Ballad of Mordaci Bloode

Screaming Death was the most sought after band.
They played the biggest houses throughout the land.
With his platform shoes
and his bellbottom pants,
his leather fringed shirt
and his funky little dance,
Mordaci Bloode would strut across the stage,
bustin’ guitars with the crowd in a rage.
And when Mordaci ventured out for a beer,
people would stop and people would stare.
But Mordaci, Mordaci,
Mordaci Bloode just didn’t care.

And when rock turned to disco
and disco turned to punk,
Mordaci said,
“Who needs this junk?”
And he still kicked his amps
and busted guitars,
and he and his roadies
would trash out the bars.
But the towns grew thinner
and the crowds grew lean,
and then the band members said,
“We’re splittin’ this scene.”
And Mordaci shouted
that he didn’t care,
but you just can’t have a concert
when there’s nobody there.

Now Mordaci sits at the bar
drinking alone.
The fans have all left him,
the roadies gone home.
And nobody bothers
to stop and stare
at his outrageous clothing
or his wild, bushy hair,
and none of his songs
are played over the air,
because nobody, but nobody,
nobody cares.