The States

and when our drummer died
we just kept on
split up his cigarettes
and stole lyrics from his songs.

and when the bassists ripped by coat
man, I thought I’d freeze
as the wind raked whispers
from scrawny city trees.

high times, pale days
the Western World in a fadeaway.

the roads from up here
don’t look like roads at all
but more like pencil sketches
some lunatic would draw.

hangovers, rendezvous
with Mascara girls with the mascara blues.