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