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Patron saint of discarded warnings,
late night saturn returns in hunched black hoodies,
shit-talking till dawn in burnt out parking lots.

I am the patron of perception six drinks in
reeling and laughing at you, stealing hats,
drinking down the well whiskey,
seven doors down from the smashed in cars.

Bring the tequila this time, sweetie,
let's trade lies in the unrecorded corners,
let's go light bonfires and burn them hot with vodka.

At 6AM, let's build a bridge of your wasted chances,
and try to shove each other over, piss-drunk and puking.

I am close friends with an undertaker,
a neighbor to an incinerator

I have a passing acquaintance
with several priests, some of whom give last rites
via speed dial.

I have been called a dark angel,
the patron saint of self-dug graves

I admit to some flaws, but
just a few.

I am nothing compared to my best friend,
an irritable hit man,
payments and patience both past due

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