The crowd was chill in Deadville,

for the Summer tour that day.

The band, too, was a bit confused,

so they let the music play.

Bobby played his cowboy tunes,

and you could see the drummers scowl.

Then he played his slide guitar,

and dogs began to howl.

Phil was on his seventh beer,

and it was the first set.

Trouble was a brewing,

but they couldn’t see what just yet.

The monitors went in and out,

the lights shined in their eyes.

The only constant on that stage

were Bobby’s manly thighs.

They asked themselves, are we just jokes?

A hoax, a fraud, a sham?

When Jerry stepped up to the mic,

and said simply, “Let me jam.”

Phil threw a bomb straight at his pal,

a million-megaton blast.

But Jerry simply smoked his cig,

and let that sucker pass

Bobby teased a hundred songs,

in every time and key.

But Jerry just tuned up his axe,

and sniffed, “Those weren’t for me.”

But from the tinkling and the chimes

of those tuning guitar notes,

you could hear the Terrapin Flyer

on its speed run down the coast.

And somewhere Heads are dancing,

both the casual and devout.

For there is joy in Deadville,

Mighty Jerry has rocked out.