shake and stir yourself into a bad excusenna half-hearted 'fuck you'nnimagine all the nowhere places we'd have beennnand all cynicism aside, let me try to turn these awful wordsnninto a cure, not a curse.nnand i'm still drawn by the kid in the cornernnand the lovely angels alone on benchesnni'm still making pleasnnto the kid whose clothes don't fitnnwho hasn't found himself just yetnnlet alone the chance to lovenncross him off your listnnand its piling up head over fist.nnwhile you're making eyes across the roomnnthey got caught standing bored by the sidewalknnthey tried to turn the opera into a punk rock stagennthey cut and run at such a tender age