Elvis once gave a fantastically inarticulate speech (run on a loop nearby the glass case containing his Vegas costumes in the basement of Graceland ) in which he reminisced about reading comic books as a kid and wanting to be the hero; I wanted to be Elvis as a kid, still do. One of my first memories is mispronouncing his name–Elvis Parsley, probably–trying to express to my parents that I had discovered that the meaning of life was a pilled-up hillbilly in a jumpsuit. Elvis is everywhere, still is.
Listen to this: it’s Elvis doing an Elvis impression, high out of his mind, and only in possession of one-tenth of the lyrics to the song. But the guitar player is doing his best mandolin imitation the whole time, and it turns out that Elvis fucking around sounds better than the rest of humanity trying its hardest.
(Seriously: Elvis did not learn the words, and no one bothered to write them down for him.)