Subsequent Stones (from AmalgaMates)

Which band will, though right now unknown,
inherit Rock-'n'-Rolldom's throne?
Who's next? Some Keith or Jagger clones?
In brief: who'd lief become the Stones?

Perhaps 'twill be the Altar Stones: 

The Alt's attire? A"choir"d robes.
They ply Thai lyres resembling globes
and prance past oscillating strobes
to lays of Leopold's and Loeb's.
Their gigs end badly (as did Job's)
once Phahtha Phatts (on bass) disrobes.
The CIA's conducting probes:
affront, Alts do, fans' frontal lobes.

Perhaps the Blarneys be the ones:

The Blarneys boogie dress'd in green.
Each coleen taps her tambourine,
in time, behind a smoke machine.
They cover Cher; they cover Queen.
They need much work on their routine --
perhaps explore the Country scene.
I heard 'em last last Hallowe'en.
On Blarneys I am none too keen.

When will the Cobble Stones arrive? 
    
The Cobbles crack a giant clam
to wrap up their finale/jam.
Their keyboard player's quite the ham!
He doubles on a batt'ring ram.
Each tune? E, A, B7, blam!
(C7 blam? No, thank you, ma'am!)
For Cobbles I don't give a damn.
They're through! (You blue? No way I am!)

Perhaps the Druid Stones will thrive:
    
The Drus refuse to form a line.
They form an oval, then recline
to purr and play pan pipes -- supine!
(The Druid's groupies like this fine.)
Their soloists -- on oboes -- shine,
though playing prostrate harms the spine.
They crave applause; they've garnered thine.
The bottom line...? They'll not get mine.

Maybe the Eddy Stones are they:
    
The Eddy Stones! The Frabjous Four
are Stanley, Ruben, Smeat...one more:
Big Ben, unmentioned heretofore.
The Eddys rock! (Of that I'm shor.')
Their resume holds tales galore:
they meet in Smeat's Dad's Hardware Store --
they've done so since before the war.
The Eddys leave one wanting Moore.*
     * Dudley Moore

Or will the Flint Stones seize the day?
    
The Flints rely on Bible tales
and sundry prehistoric scales
to fashion keens, laments and wails.
They pat on pans; they frail on pails.
They pelt these pots with flints and shales,
then weigh those sounds on Richter scales.
The Flint Stones channel Christian Bales,
but call on God...when all else fails.

Perhaps the Gall Stones are the heir:

The Gall Stones haven't yet come out.
Still, gay pride's what they're all about.
They spout; they tout. They flaunt; they flout.
They pout performing "Twist 'n' Shout."
The Galls got gall; of that no doubt.
Can they stay hot and not burn out?
They've weathered much creative drought,
but now they're back! (Well...just about.) 

Or are the Head Stones four who dare:
    
The Head Stones, wakers of The Dead
(they cover Weir from A to Zed,
thus aka "The Grey-Fill'd Head"),
be "Rockin' Rebs" -- or so Time said.
Their last time out, releases read
"Khalid, Hamid, Fatima, Fred:
these four launch missiles towards Club Med."
That did it: now they've made their bed.

Perhaps 'twill be the I. F. Stones: 
    
The I. F. Stones spout freedom songs
accompanied by chimes and gongs
in hopes of righting social wrongs.
Their backup's sung by du'l dugongs
who sport -- some plain, some tie-dyed -- thongs
beneath pink extra-long sarongs.
Most fans, assembled in their throngs,
approve -- though not without their bongs.

Perhaps 'twill be the Jelly Stones:
    
The Jelly Stones -- so say some stats --
sport sev'ral music-drama hats:
their Grammy-winning "Men in Spats"
(redacted Wodehouse) rivals "Cats."
Their "Guildensteene or Rozenkratz
Be Dead" -- a work in thirteen flats --
just opened in Berlinerplatz.
(You'll never meet more pompous prats.)

Perhaps 'twill be the Kidney Stones:
    
The Kidney Stones: let's hope they pass.
The gals strum strings; the guys blow brass.
Their lead guitar, some chick called Cass,
plays double bass -- which she terms 'bass.'
The trombone player's such an ass,
he plies a slide of isinglass.
They boast a brand of working-class
accelerando fans term 'Jass.'

Perhaps the Lode Stones have a Jones:
    
The Lode Stones: an "attractive" band
whose members all play baby grand
with just the thumb of either hand,
have yet to score an encore -- and
they (though their orchestration's canned,
and music stands remain unmanned)
ignore petitions to disband.
The Lodes? They're here to stay, my "frand."

Perhaps the Moon Stones are the ones:
    
The Moon Stones, launching lunar themes,
deploy rogue planetoidal memes
composed as follow-ups to dreams
induced by teas with clotted creams.
(The teas are Bea's; the cream's Hakim's --
both drummers in the band, it seems.)
Their CD sinks to new extremes:
they lip-sync -- lamely -- the Supremes.

Or, heavy metal's Ninety Stones:
    
The Ninety Stones are so obese
they're now a conversation piece:
they weigh a thousand pounds apiece --
it says so in this press release.
In one new tune -- "Give Chance A Piece" --
they'd plann'd to sample the Police.
Sting's rep, through barristers in Nice,
has issued a "desist-and-cease."

Perhaps 'twill be the Ogham Stones:
    
The Oghams hail from Isle of Man.
They boogie as few buggers can.
Who plays the pedal attic fan...?
That's Gort. (Gort also drives the van.)
Who stands up -- on a pink divan --
and wails on rhythm warming pan?
That's Coll Muin! (Coll? You da man!)
The Ogham Stones: I (heart) dat ban'!

Or shall it be the Philo'stones? *
    
The Philo'stones are Philistines:
they're truly tasteless, by all means.
Are Albert Halls the Philos' scenes?
They'd maul those stalls to smithereens.
      The Philo'stones are Pliocenes:
garage and grunge are in their genes.
They'll rock in restrooms and latrines
unless their agent intervenes.
     The Philo'stones, like Charley Sheens,
have sex with pre-pubescent teens.
Their smoke machines belch propylenes.
They don't amount to hills o' beans.
     The Philo'stones ain't Wittgensteins:
they've waived all posh patrician miens.
They'll not achieve harmonic means...
despite those articles in 'zines.    
     * One of the pseudonyms used by the band
officially known as The Philosopher's Stones.

Perhaps 'twill be the Quarry Stones:
    
The Quarry Stones invented Rock:
they opened for the Brothers Bach!
Their drummer's kit includes a wok,
an ancient Chinese cinder block,
a gun without its shoulder stock,
twin frocks once donn'd by Doctor Spock,
and (last and least) a Franklin clock. 
(The sound thus spawned? A tad ad hoc.)

Or is it the Rosetta Stones?
    
The rockers called Rosetta Stones
take sympathetic strings called drones,
and add to those a choir of 'bones --
ensembles that result in tones
resembling Bell's on telephones.
They resonate with ancient crones.
(Still, though, for the Rosetta Stones
I've donn'd one monumental Jones.)

Perhaps 'twill be the Stixen Stones:
    
The Stixen Stones: their least disgrace?
Their leisure suits are hemp-laced lace.
Their favorite film is "Stroker Ace."
They channel Madame What's-'er-face.
Their mosh-pit boys they spray with mace.
They author songs concerning race
which feature memes like "Know Thy Place!"
I'd leave the Stixens lots of space.

Perhaps the Tombstones are the ones:
    
The Tombstones? Elderly, naive...
and in a state of such qui vive
as (dare I say it) to believe
the gig they play'd last New Year's Eve
they'll manage, this year, to retrieve.
(They gave: they figure they'll receive.)
I sat each down: "Ste-Ste-Ste-Steve,"
I stuttered, tugging at Steve's sleeve.
(I took aside as well Je-Jeeve,
Wa-Wally, and the Bea-Bea-Beav.)
"Don't grieve, old friends; old friends, don't grieve...
but, gentlemen: 'Tis time to leave."

Or one of sev'ral fin'shing Stones: 

The Uncut Stones? Continue rough.
The Vein Stones? Who's not had enough?
The Whet Stones' artistry's run dry.
The Xanthin Stones? Not for to "dye"!
The Yellows play in mustard masks.
The Zachs? But cease such tactless tacks:
To none of these Rock's torch bequeath
shall Ronnie, Charlie, Mick and Keith.