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Welcome to the new generation of drunk drivers.
Tattooed angels pity sex and dance-all-nighters.
Be glad, it's good fashion - look
             there's pity in rags
and there's camaraderie in anger.

We dragged you from your submission hold like a witness.
Cut your hair and rearranged your sickness.
Handed you clean robes and heroin nods
and advised you not to forget this.

You,   heir apparent to the king of burning bars.
You,   desperate hope and final friend of the north star.
In a town so full of night it carries you like you were
riding shotgun in Frank Sinatra's car.

The suicide doors open.
Sign a write-in guest list.
Begin walking, strutting, limping.

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