With their bandanas and visions,
Carrying a reportedly heavy load
All the way from Conneticut.
Their message is brief, or at least
Was supposed to be before
They pulled out the yellowed paper
Tucked away in their back pocket,
Reciting the list of buddies
They met in mint-green pastures
That overlooked a constant sunset
Spinning wildly in their mush brains,
Which I now poke at in the street.
What’s the secret for this kind of
Destruction, who sends the couriers
That carry their hearts in paper baskets
Like a tough rack of spicy-sweet ribs.
The conversation lasted longer than
All the cigarettes my lungs could take,
But that’s all for tonight, now rest.
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