
It doesn’t ever close.
You’d need a firehose
To clean the locals out,
And even then they’d just go on burning,
Reminiscing,
Kissing
The lip of their gin,
Still full of who they almost could have been.

It doesn’t ever close.
You’d need a firehose
To clean the locals out,
And even then they’d just go on burning,
Reminiscing,
Kissing
The lip of their gin,
Still full of who they almost could have been.