In This, Dying | Linda Chown

In This, Dying 
And we wake to a slue of death
Every day now come the morning. 
Someone’s blood gets blown dead 
And i can’t stop seeing those tribes, 
Long woven beards and fields of opium 
Waving and thickening in Afghan sun 
Charlie Watts a panacea of balance
And substance, he was a golden child gone.
Don Everly widening in the time of his dying.
Such a classical hillbilly he was. Susie wake up.
It’s that we’ve shot our loads. In deliberate. 
In our wicked lust to have more of more