The Bus Roared On. I Was Going

Put Down The Pen Someone Else Gave You. No One Ever Drafted A Life Worth Living On Borrowed Ink.

They Were Like The Man With The Dungeon Stone And Gloom, Rising From The Underground, The Sordid Hipsters Of America, A New Beat Generation That I Was Slowly Joining.

Pretty Girls Make Graves

Forgive Everyone For Your Own Sins And Be Sure To Tell Them You Love Them Which You Do.

There Was Nothing To Talk About Anymore. The Only Thing To Do Was Go.