Load up cassettes, Madonna's oldest record.
When you could swill pink from your mouth. Gypsytramps.
Racing wagons, loud speakers on. Twinkies, saints, leather boys and you.
Making beats, solely ours. Our music is loud enough for Gods.
Your mother watches you gyrate from her window but maybe
She just wants to dance too?
Come inside a smokey room. With a paper and pen. Incense and cigarettes, flowers and water. They all go together, too well.
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