Tossed in the rush, we turn to talk of all our problems, the quick quiet brush on the snare, the burn of a headlight in the highway.
Lost, one stark flash of control, lost, the echoes on the upright following an attack, or a riot: lost, the aggression of late summer rage.
I write this down, so that when you walk in from backstage we’ll have had it tuned -- and dare, with the smooth pluck of a love child, one fast track played tight one more crowd rat wild, one last dance in the light.