(I wanna be a) Dead Rock Star

I wanna be a dead Rock Star.
Killed by a Sycamore tree in Barnes Common.
In my purple mini car.
Seduced by the glory of an early grave.
Dead at twenty seven.
Infamy I do crave.

Drowned in a swimming pool, or drowned in a pool of vomit.
I don’t care!

Overdose of Heroin is a preference.
Sex and drugs the obvious reference.
Dead on a hotel floor.
Fans screaming out for more.
Inhalation of vomit due to barbituate intoxication.
Inciting my fans provocation.

Self destructive if you fancy.
A death wish for Sid and Nancy.
Better to burn out than fade away.
I blew my brains out yesterday.

Once you’re dead, you’re made for life.
I was found hanging in the kitchen, by my wife.
Love tore us apart.
Now I’m a dead Rock Star.
I’ve really got the part.

I was shot in New York, by a crazed fan.
They keep my grave spick and span.
Killed by excess.
Killed by fame.
But at least all of you know my name.

I’m your dead Rock Star.
My posters on your wall.
My tragedy, you will always recall.

I’m your dead Rock Star.
A tombstone tourist.
You’re my fan.
A Rock and Roll purist.

My death and tragedy to you I gave.
But what do I care?
I’m a legend and I’m laughing …………in my grave!