For all the recent talk about royalty and primogeniture, there may be no greater example of its perils than Lisa Marie Presley.
The only child of Elvis, the King of Rock n’ Roll, Lisa Marie felt like she belonged to all of us, and how terribly unfair. She was the little girl who had everything: Her father spoiled her silly, giving her a tiny, bespoke fur coat and real jewels. He named one of his private planes after her, a plane you can tour at Graceland for an extra fee. He would send a car, unannounced, to pick her up at school, and that was the sign she was going on the road with her daddy. He once flew her to Utah just so she could see snow.
She was with her father when he died in his bathroom at Graceland. She saw him on the floor, rolled out of his own vomit, people working to resuscitate him as her grandfather Vernon wailed, ‘Oh God son, please don’t go, please don’t die.’
Lisa was nine years old. ‘What’s wrong with my daddy?’ she asked. ‘Something’s wrong with my daddy, and…
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