| Mention of the stars reduce us back
|
| They, about them, have time’s things hanging;
|
| We are around near the railroad track
|
| Checking out the thundering
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| Names you call could have been ours
|
| To call and live among them;
|
| Friends come by and spend some hours
|
| And then back down to working…
|
| At night, things come and half a life
|
| Not so silly walking
|
| All different clothes in the half light
|
| And a halting way of talking
|
| There really was one way to be
|
| Yet this is not it, we think
|
| To be such younger folk as we
|
| Not levelled as we drink
|
| We’re busted up, so ragged down
|
| And kissing and subsisting;
|
| Our eyes glint wild and roll around
|
| And the dog, he whines insisting
|
| He asks that we allow the sex
|
| To make us unrecognizable;
|
| That we allow slow violence
|
| To prove us rebaptizable |