Powdered red dust.
Downers or rust?

Both leave
a bent can
rollin' around.

Oily, dirty,
an' hair
still starin'
the street down.

My way,
kind a' turned this way,
oh,
back a bit.

It's always
a long,
long day,
tomorrow.

Their nectar drinks,
and so do they,
when you
treat 'em as such.

Sweet things of delight,
you dance 'em once,
and it just
feels right.

Can love
jus' last
a little bit past
a Saturday night?

You only
know 'em
after they're gone,
ya know?