.Pretty Damn.

.Pretty Damn.

My black fedora they say defines me,

couldn't shield me from her ever changing…

Once we glowed like the flame

from that rusty red lighter,

so you’re out of cigarettes,

where’s your punk spirit?

My fortified soul is like the forgotten memory

of where we met, it is stained with my words.

She wasn't anything sacred but she felt hallowed.

It was a barrel fire on the empty streets.

We danced like lip bruised hill billies;

it rained, it smoked and the love,

blew out like the ash, in the wind at dawn

but it was first light all the same

and there'll be others dancing

at dusk come the next barrel brawls.