Memorials are left by in utero children
Many of them younger than your daughter
Still, too many of us want to block out the your memory on April 8th
We were the lost generation left in your wake
Trying to deny impact of the blast that made us drown in the chorus
Of mangled Jaguars and Mustangs forgotten in your drunk fury
We get off your old Lady Love's back
And admit that we, the public, murdered you
By the weight of unwanted popularity
The pills of Billboard immortality were given to you by the millions
Taking them wreaked havoc on the soul that still walks with
Dirty Cons on streets with the Needle
Flying those heroin dreams, wrapped in flannel and served with Bleach
Burdening your desire
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