The Coloradoan Song of the Dead The Starbucks is on fire, my man, isn't this what you always dreamed would happen? The coffee beans and gasoline smell like an obscenity The tear gas dancing through the square is the breath of a toothless clipper captain Motionless for months at sea with land a crumbling memory Sure, maybe all your friends are dead, if they even existed But you'll see each of them again when these iron-fisted feds take their talents to South Beach or Antietam And the mountains darken and the summer weeps and the river flows Through the empty lobbies of the towers full of unsold condos You'll see them when the morbid gaze of the moon lights up whatever they call it "The K-mart of doom" or "the tomb of the nurses" or "plant-based meat distribution center opening soon" Beneath the bloody Birkenstocks, the broken old atomic clock won't read exactly when But you'll see them, you'll see them again Dead rappers, dead wrestlers, dead pastors, dead professors Dead actors, dead doctors, dead snake oil remedy hawkers Dead priests, dead joggers, dead beasts, dead first responders Dead queens, dead peasants, dead teens, dead presidents Dead singers