There’s an independent bookstore 
The last one that remains 
All those others you might look for 
Have been eaten by the chains 
They soldier on 
No one cleans the window panes 

It was there I read the story 
So strange it must be real 
Of a car in Arizona 
With Elvis at the wheel 
He’s looking up 
The sky has something to reveal 

It is the face of Josef Stalin 
That is formed by drifting clouds 
Above the sleeping Memphis mafia 
And unsuspecting cows 

This is a sign from God! It’s plain 
This is a sign that nothing he does for the rest of his life 
Will be the same 

It’s a medieval moment 
A religious episode 
He is shaking in his footsteps 
On the dusty desert road 
His entourage are nervous 
And subdued 

How must it be to feel such passion? 
To be caught up in the thrall 
In some unfathomable fashion 
Like a pink and black St. Paul? 

Look at those shining stars that fall 
Look at that moon that doesn't know whether to laugh or to cry at it all