Memories of beer and cigarettes,
cheap whisky and even cheaper rooms.
The memories make me long
but they also keep me content;
grounded to this savage place.
I wouldn’t call them the
hardest of times,
but rather they are the monotonous
trials of everyday life.
The symphonic, yet tragically
beautiful crescendo of
the working class.
A slow build to an exhausting
peek of mediocrity.
For every low there is a high,
for every smile there is a tear.
And if struggle is what defines us,
then we are modern warriors.
Blue collar gladiators.
So I raise my glass to all those
who finished last,
because life itself is enough to celebrate.
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