Skull full of whiskey magic
The city shakes it's fists
And pulses in time
With the veins in my head.
Dead bird in the gutter
Worms crawl in its eye
The night is rusted
And tastes like ash and wet rubber
The hooker on the corner
Turns away when she sees
Neon puddles of green and red
Steam from the manholes
There's blood on my face
And I don't know why or whose
But I think
It may be
Yours.
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