I escaped from Murder City.
Bodies piled up quicker
Than the days of the new year.
I escaped to nothing.
A shrine of consumerism
Masked as civilization.
Nothing to do but count the "dubya" stickers
As they ride down the road.
Nothing to do but wait
For the insomnia TV wasteland.
South Park at midnight,
A little Springer at twelve-thirty,
Then a full hour of King Of The Hill at one.
My girl just left me.
She says we've been living an illusion.
I say that it is not an illusion
Until one of us proclaims it one.
Oh but wait, she just took care of that.
I got a message from Murder City today.
Telling me I picked the right time to get out.
I worry about the friends I left behind.
I guess there are more dangerous places to be like Iraq.
If I know Murder City,
So proud of all its achievements
It probably wears that title like a badge of honor.
The Summer of Gypsie Hendricks:
by Joan Hoekstra
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