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Ghost Mice and Ramshackle Glory
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Eulogy for an adolescence shattered against Elliot Street Pavement (here's to being young!)
Here's to the knives in your pockets, the gun in your trunk, the years it's been since we weren't drunk. The neighbor shirtless, face-down on the lawn. Here's to the BB gun holes in the wall, the burnt tin foil in the hall. The weeks I've spent in bed since you were gone. Here's to shitting my pants downtown when the dealer's late, stumbling home to the feds at the front gate, sleeping behind the school when the landlord comes. Here's to being young. I hope I die before I get old. Hell, I just hope I die before the spoon gets cold. Sing it with me now, while we've still got our lungs：Here's to being young. Buy whipped cream on EBT and huff it in the dark with me. There's a bill on the table, but I don't recognize the name. We just came for a good time. It's listerine, but it tastes fine, or at least it did last time you got the shakes. Here's to running out the grocery store with a thirty pack, punching the cashier that wants it back, booking it out of there before the police come. Here's to being young. I hope I die before I get old. Hell, I just hope I die. Blah, blah, blah. Sing it with me now, convince me this is fun：Here's to being young.
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