The last great defender of the heart of Saturday night
Burned out madly in the back seat of a black Cadillac
How the thunder crashed
Our fathers' leather jackets
A bit too big on our shoulders
Slowly unstitch in the closet
A dusty crypt of characters
We've retired, starved and silenced
Dead poets and pissed off kids
Haunt the highways, plaintive clichés
Longing for glory days that never came

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