Twenty-Seven Club

The Rolling
Stones lost Brian Jones,
To death by misadventure.

You’ve got Hendrix
Burning midnight lamps,
With pills and wine and such,

Your Joplin and your Morrison
Checked out from hotel floors
And all within two years –

Come on guys, heroin?

How ’bout a couple beers.
I think James Dean
Made the scene,

Cutting out at twenty-four,
He made dying early
Look too cool,

He’d opened up the door,
For Kurt Cobain and stomach pain,
Shooting his way out.

Another expiration date
Now that Winehouse
Joined the train,

Hey all you rock-and-roller types,
Instead of veins or brains or drains,
Aim for twenty-eight.

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