8 Years

Some of these are wrong.

8 years playing guitars together. Playing bars wherever. Getting lost in bad weather. Having nearly lost the fun. You turned up “Born to run.” Writing long postcards to mothers with sons in the ER. I moved into the VR. And somewhere, man in that passenger van is left your curse because one man’s limo is another man’s hearse.

Talking about smoking and the joys of pain. He shit his pants in Champaign and you brought an old professor over for Halloween, who shoved a handgun down his pants and climbed a tree screaming “cunt” Then shot his dick off. And I can’t describe which is worse because one man’s limo is another man’s hearse.

Picking on state lines, picking up parking fines, Father’s driving us on our first tour because we can’t drive; playing the same venue as Q and Not U then watching 2 Lesbians tongue on a mechanical bull. It got kind of surreal. I guess that things had gotten worse. But one man’s Limo is another man’s hearse.

There is nothing more gorgeous or covered I have found, than the Northern part of the state at sundown. There is nothing more gorgeous or covered I have found, than the Southern part of the state at sundown. There is nothing more gorgeous or covered I have found, than the Eastern part of the state at sundown. There is nothing more gorgeous or covered I have found, than the Western part of the state at right now.