Dead TV channels and corn puffs on floor like skinemax and taxes on the poor
Stained coffee tables and sunlight through the glass pane door
The aftermath of ****** and scores
All of us have some kind of drug in our veins and pores

That ***** outdoor patio, with the edgy tattooed girls
Where we used to turn over chairs to find pearls
The 90% would always put us into a swirl
The moonshine would always help us unfurl

Saints on high our porches rumble
Where secrets held are worse than those under the Vatican’s
But we’re as dead as the mannequins
And we’re lost to our ambitions that we humble

Like kindred souls around a fire we lost ourselves to gravity
Our mornings filled with sweet nothings, our nights with serendipity
Where we found peace and home in entropy
In the lull of a dogtown in the middle of the world