Last resort lane, ladies charming suited lames in grey Mercedes
Short shorts with big baps doing street laps pleading, small heat maps
Selling their meat even when they’re bleeding
Cheeks hard from backhands, street’s hard better back glance
Some of them damaged by sexual animals, others fifth chancers
Keep fleeing rehab at the first chance, one or two former dancers
Who missed college by an answer, unacknowledged cancer
Sandwiched between bandits, last unmanned flat on the baddest landing
Men lying flat on uncarpeted, paint-splatted planks
Surrounded by empty gas
Canisters like a ghoulish pile of mustard-wrecked Tommies.
Alchemisland 
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