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The poets down here don't write nothing at all, they just sit back and let it all be.

The streets alive as secret debts are paid

They'll meet 'neath that giant Exxon sign that brings this fair city light

Like a vision she dances across the porch, as the radio plays.

Have a little faith, there's magic in the night.

Hey man, that ain't oil, that's blood.

Yellow thing