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The bible props open a window
On the second floor of a 2 star hotel
3 fingers of single malt in a coffee cup
Praying morning never comes
But a thrush is singing like a starlet
Shadows are stretching like a harlot
And weâre running out of cigarettes
John Farrell Buffalo
The Golden Age of radio
We still believed in rock n roll
There's an empty seat on a greyhound,
Leaving the big smoke headed southbound.
I'm listening to Forever Changes with your ghost,
I won't burn my miracles.
Curled up cowering like a comma,
The pause before a broken promise
(I wonât be daring from a distance) Iâll find myself a trade wind.
Maybe Heaven doesnât exist
Maybe it never has
Or maybe just for doubting it Iâll be damned