A horse drifted off from the radio
The last to dine here on a steak
We all measure the blood we’ve drawn in a mole
We just stack the butts outside the door
If blood was sticks your heart would break
The last ball was a flume—what to do?
There’s some sexy in a sleeping horse
I coach you here in my heart
Faces of the dirty froth
A martyr solid ice
Petitions of drivers as they drive by
It’s true that you’re city geeks
