Bless the Lords of the neon night,
who crank the amps till the sparks take flight—
Billy’s silver six-string crying,
J. Geils harp moaning, never dying,
Eddie’s heartbeat pounding on the keys.
We raise cracked voices, busted knees,
sweat baptizing this garage-floor church;
every riff a prayer, every solo a search.
When the midnight thunder rolls,
their rock-and-roll saves our rock-and-roll souls.