The guardian of our fair city
perched in the sad sky,
the patron saint of last call.
Sitting in your throne
you watch us stumble off our stools
we howl like mad men,
cry like children.
and pour out our hearts
like inmates at last confession.
Dreamers with hope in their eyes,
artists with sorrow in their hearts
you beseech us,
all the same.
You watch over us.
And here in your home,
at the end of the world.
We sit.
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