Bombed.

Love
There are flowers hanging in the vine
so high you cannot see

Now my mind
must go on holiday
torn from its hook
a broken valentine

I see smoke
from a revolver
will I get hit
I hardly care

When I’m bombed
I stretch like bubblegum
and look too long
straight at the morning sun

Love
There are flowers along the avenue
all things perfectly in place

I build a shrine
I set a monument
because you’re fire
because you’re a fire escape

Lanegan

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