Been a damned disaster. 4.20's stuck in Manchester.
God only knows when she'll reach Station Insomnia.
Could-a caught 2.10am to the warmest, snuggest bed
but demons demand more than patient proximity of
flesh to move match sticks from dehydrated eyelids.

In Platform shadow-glow, sits this Guy, looks as though
he's seen Worlds through rattling-rail-windows. He got
rough six day grey stubble growth, dusty trilby, battered
felt coat and this beat up, old acoustic with an acute sense
of ethereal. So the story goes, it was forged from a cross
road, crest fallen Soul in '38 in Greenwood, Mississippi.

His name's Mr. Daniels, but I 'm to call him Jack since
we're gettin' on so friendly. Takes great delight in the
4.20's plight and he sees opportunity to indoctrinate me.
Offers endless cigarettes from a sideways pack, (each tastes
filthier than the last) 'n' malty wisdom disguised as caffeine.

Talk's smooth, soon my troubled sins spill through raw
slide glass on steel. Gruff, dusky, voice so outta tune,
intoxicating down-scale Blues exploits reality's shattered
illusions. Sips life from lips with bitter-sweet renditions of
my secrets. I should know by now he ain't the type to keep
them and it annoys me how my suffering makes him happy.

I wish for deprivation emancipation and soothing act
of simple-shape translucent paper manipulation. For
sweet, green sleepy smoky astral rail the 4.20 train takes.

Only two thousand minutes 'til Work Haul chugs death-toll
daily dreaded fate. Yeah, you know that cart won't be late!