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John Farrell Buffalo
The bible props open a window
On the second floor of a 2 star hotel
3 fingers of single malt in a coffee cup
Praying morning never comes
But a thrush is singing like a starlet
Shadows are stretching like a harlot
And we're running out of cigarettes
John Farrell Buffalo
The Golden Age of radio
We still believed in rock n roll
There's an empty seat on a greyhound,
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Leaving the big smoke headed southbound.
I'm listening to Forever Changes with your ghost,
I won't burn my miracles.
Curled up cowering like a comma,
The pause before a broken promise
(I won't be daring from a distance) I'll find myself a trade wind.
Maybe Heaven doesn't exist
Maybe it never has
Or maybe just for doubting it I'll be damned
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