Rock’n’roll schal ne’er deyen

Whan that the Fab Four wexen old and sere,

Left are but Paul Macca and Ringo Stere.

Of Dave Clark’s Five, some looken back to land,

Cast by the Mersey on the salté sand.

Now Gerry hath a pacing-heart of steel,

And Herman as a hermit can you feel;

Old Manfred Mann goth halting on his way,

And Animals be vermin, sooth to say. 

Young Hank with Senior sang of yore, I gesse,

Whose cheating heart was cold in his distresse.

And Natalie with Nat, her father dere,

Duetted loud, and won the gold y-fere.

A way there is to gather worldés pelf,

Though many a bird hath flown from out his shelf:

Good John of Denver, Stevie, Buddy bright,

With Ricky, Otis, singen day and night,

Y-bounden in a supergroup of might. 

Bring me the bonés of y-storven Brian,

And Jopelin glasses, blue as any cyan;

The pick of Jimi, and Keith Moonés stick,

And Casses caftan, woven fine and thick. 

For Rock and Roll, y-wis, shall never die,

Nor shall her heroes in the cloddes lie;

Take but three digits, tack on zeroes six,

And lo, the gold and silver shall it mix!

The Beatles live, as friar John were never slain;

And Elvis breatheth yet, some folk maintain —

Yet what is sooth, is not, and all is vain!

(I creye yew mercy, Loudon se wægnwyrhta III)