Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to...
No point caring for music
The flat bay as always
Lights are always strung
It’s always dusk
The park has always just closed
They’re always dead
They’re always not coming back
It’s always d minor
It’s always a flag at half mast
It’s always a procession
It’s always the chat
The shit beer and the chat
It’s never sunlit lawns
It’s never a full chord
All four fingers
Tightly tuned and ringing out
All the dead bowing
Waiting for applause
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