Long before hippies, the hips of Elvis. How they swivelled.
My dad, in his old-age, would enjoy listening to Elvis, particularly his love
songs. Love me tender, love me true.
When Dad died the priest asked what music we’d like at the funeral. I said, ‘Elvis.’
The priest laughed and, sorry to say, I joined in with his laughter. We
resorted to the usual plaintiff hymns. And, now years later, I regret it.
Should have gone with the mellifluous voice of the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll and not the strangled rendition of
a tired old hymn.
