SPECKLES ATOP HIS HAND HE TELLS ME,
!I CAN'T HIT MY ARMS ANYMORE.
I CAN'T EITHER
PATRON SAINT OF DRUG TRAFFICKERS
OUR DRIVE INTO THE CITY
STOMACH ROT AND SWEAT BEADS
THE DRIVE HOME SPEED ***** AND
DREAMS
YOU'RE NOT TRYING TODAY BROTHER
AND TOMORROW IS OUR DEBT TO PAY
DO WE NOT STAND WHERE GREAT MEN STOOD
AND DISSOLVE IN THE BURNING LIGHT