A dissertation of Progressive Rock.
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In the beginning was the Moody, and the Moody was prog, and the prog was Moody.
And there were many who drank from the well of prog; Sgt. Pepper, the Satanic Majesties, even the Boys of the Beach and the sounds of their pets. But for Moody, it ran as did the blood in his veins. Blue it ran, but not bluesy. Blue as nights in white satin into tuesday afternoon. To our children's children's children he sang until the seventh sojourn to the gemini dream.
And the Moody begat five children.
One was positive. Astral travelling from the south side of the sky, he was fragile and lived close to the edge. Though some threw tormatoes at him, he went for the one and used the keys to ascencion to climb the ladder and open our eyes. He plugged into the big generator and relayed to us the heart of the sunrise.
Another of the sons of Moody cried for elp. His condition required brain salad surgery, and he feared all nine karn evils. Still, he was a lucky man who still turns me on. Viewing a trilogy of pictures at an exhibition, he saw the hoedown between the sherrif and Benny the bouncer as a fanfare for the common man.
Still another aspired to be a King in crimson. He had the discipline, and was dealt a hand that could beat three of a perfect pair. But he was a 21st century schizoid man. In his courts they spoke elephant talk, but instead of red his clothing was starless and bible black.
Jethro was seen as a tull boy, just driving around in his four wheel drive (low ratio) and singing songs from the wood. And yet, those who knew him well found him deep enough to require an aqualung and as heavy as horses. He would stand up and freely pass the cup of crimson wonder for the benefit of all, even honoring the crest of a knave and the minstrels in his gallery. If only he could have done something about his locomotive breath.
The last wished to be first. "What shall you call me?" he laughed. "Anything but late for supper." He spent his days dancing the foxtrot and singing nursery crymes. He was even accused of selling England by the pound. He tooted the angel's trumpet until he had his phil. In the end, there was nothing left but his invisible touch.
And the five sons of Moody begat children of their own. From Kansas to Boston to Asia and even across the Styx they journeyed on gentle giant camels from star castle to dream theatre, carrying the King's X and drinking deeply of the nektar. From atop salem hill they were divine in sight of America Gommorah.
And Moody, now a great grandfather, said "Lovely to see you again, my friends."
