lights above the diner, hanging from the plant, bare bulbs burning yellow, on the rust of a toothless dusk
we’d cross over to the Philly side, sometimes, smoking 27s the whole way, with the windows down as The Attic Tapes played, and the night coming in cold and black
Philly wasn’t much bigger then, for our foil and thrust, just like those shows weren’t much, cross the bridge and watch, kids rage against what did them in, in the end
why do I get to live, in this rock&roll paradise, with little to no consequence, while you got pulled down and hemmed in by everything we were up against?
lights above the diner, on the way home, side by side with the railroad tracks, laughter falling out the window and the night coming in cold and black
Going for the Throat 