My coat's dry-cleaned, but my throat is dry so I clutch the keys to my rented car while trying to catch the waitress' eye: Happy Hour, haunting the taco bar "Bottoms up" says button-down shirt though the bill builds up and the rain may pour. The city's new, but I know this hurt: I feel that I've been in this state before. If I could fly with my wing-tip shoes I'd leave this baggage far behind The sky would swallow my business blues the moon white-out my shadowed mind Yet darkness, drink, and my soul decline the bottomless pit of the bottom line. 1900-1946 18 feb 85 Huntsville, AL

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