I been to boothill but I ain’t there now.
take off your glasses and look at the roses.
the blushing pink cheeks of spring.
here it comes again and then it goes away.
some say the grave is like an airport to paradise.
others roll the dice and try to find paradise walking
like, above the ground. roll them dice.
roll them bones. it goes around and around.
that sun tanned well coifed meter maid.
who knows where she goes on her days off.
takes off those shades and lets her hair down.
angel of deliverance. angel of mercy.
who’s to say they ain’t one and the same.