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Street Music

The city’s his sheet music and lights his notes
And at the end of every line there’s a bar
Where rain pisses razorblades on a cat tin roof
And he punches drunk through fresh chilled mist
With nothing but an old rolled blanket of shame
Steel wool beard rust stained and frozen with guilt
And he smells like a corpse down from the cross
And his holy mitts shake for no reason except habit
And his mind won’t remember questions or answers
But somehow his lips shape words when needed
He knows it’s a lie but the truth just the same
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COMMENTS
Dave Walker 25 December 2011
Like it. I always say we are all one step from living on the streets. Really like this.
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