This is the last of the washed-out summer dreamsnin the backseats of muscle cars and through screen doorsnyoung love is deader than evernblame it on gin, guilt, pills, fraud, scratch off ticketsnand teenage pregnancynfrom born to run to born to losenwithout the James Dean attitudenlike a brown bag hero who saysnput the kids to bed tonight, cause I'm not coming back this timenfrom stealing cigarettes from vending machinesnto my very first trache ringnwhen these lips hit god's ears they say this hurts so much less than you promised it wouldnI've got the same lips as our hero and they say no future