We rocked, we rolled, strolled through the revelers, rocket scientists wearing ripped jeans & pointed rattlesnakes, some had rose tats.
Cocksure, we rode the ferris wheel above the skyline of never never land & right down the street, there was enough armament to level all the strip malls in the Springs.
Funny, they told us we were the violent ones, the dangerous kind, tightly wound psychos who sung anthems, those sweet child 'o mine pop tunes.
So hell yea, we were tough, the no-prisoner-types, trained-to-**** fighters wearing pearled buttons, sipping Boone's Farm, we continued to spin circles, spitting into the cold Colorado wind.