Things have come to that
The back talk and cool ranch
Doritos locos tacos race towards
you like a horse who's master
has smacked their rump with a tire iron,
or a dog who's outside to pee
in 30 below weather, running
for the warm house.
Nobody sings like that anymore
Parachute and One Tree Hill
wannabe bands coat the lining
of the iPod memory. Noting
a period of what seemed to be,
before someone slaps you in the back
and your lung comes through your chest.
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