Born out of old train brains.
It's where the hitchhike meets the Ahhh! of gas prices.
It's the lonely tip jar beneath the alley sax.
It's the pawing of the window by the young tomcat.
It's the cheers of whiskey underneath the birch tree.
It's the wind whipped flag blessing suburban streets.
It's where the way gone drunk meets the AA dark roast.
It's where the God forsaken desert meets the God cut coast.
It's the scream of the infant, it's the knuckles of the old.
It's where the one's with money buy blankets for the cold.
It's where laughs are shared and the hurt are embraced.
It's where the power suit meets the prostitute's lace.
It's where the dodge of the matador meets the frustrated bull.
It's the shelter where the poor got a whole bowl full.
Meet us on that hill.
We'll write it in the dirt, MOONSVILLE.

-RW