You are quiet now,
you brandisher of baseball bats
you psycho-billy dancer
crooner of the barlight
The city is burning, crumbling to wreckage
and you were the crowing rooster
atop the ruin, the song of the fire
frankenstein
The nights all run together,
until, blinking, in the closing time light
we are herded into the street
with tall boys in bags
with sugar-spun eyeballs
swallowing starlight
to wreck cars, to fight
to drink until the sun rises in rented houses
to pass platefuls of our own death
And you, Jaybird
crown prince of wasted time
king of portugal, of cockaigne
of the orchestra of donkeys
You don't have to go home
but you can't stay here
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