The devil in the backwards of a song
A door framed in red
Like lipstick crimson
And lists of people on lists
Those lines and lines of black static
Marching like bayonets
Shaving razors for the soldiers
Smashed tomatoes and white starched pants
Sunday dress and Tuesday’s mood
When my wife asks for cutlery
And I only have hands to feed her
There will only be enough sweet smiles
To last the honeymoon
Quietly, quietly the birds
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