An atomic blast in the sky,
manufactured gases only fuel the fire,
are we sons of bitches too?
This city,
this sprawl,
is it really the thread
that connects all our lives?
If that's the case,
Jim Casey, you are not a liar,
but a preacher filled with false hope.
The pretty lights,
illuminate the night.
Are those people,
or burning dreams?
All i know for sure,
is that on the highway,
the sun always sets behind the concrete wall.
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