Our Yellow Submarine

Our yellow sub won’t sail away, 
It rusts inside the bay. 
No songs are sung, no tales are told— 
Just echoes of yesterday. 

Rock ‘n’ roll’s a ghost, they say, 
Leather jackets fade to gray. 
The studs have rusted, belts won’t clasp— 
Our rebel hearts still stray. 

The bikes sleep cold in garages dim, 
No roar, no race, no whim. 
Their tanks run dry, their wheels stand still— 
A fire burned down to a hymn. 

Our guitars hang like memories spun, 
Dusty strings, undone. 
Silent now, but once they screamed— 
A battle lost, but never won. 

But we’re no puppets, hear us shout! 
Time won’t take us out. 
We’re still alive, still loud, still wild— 
(Just don’t forget the pills, no doubt.) 

This ain’t disco, kid, don’t mistake, 
It’s blues-rock in its wake. 
The world still shakes when legends play— 
Your granddad’s records *quake*. 

Rock rolls on, it never dies, 
A flame in reckless skies. 
The music lives, the spirit soars— 
*Forever young*, the old still rise.