The newspapers bury the lede with stories of murder and madness, when there’s nothing more honest to report than the glitter kids in front of Lucy’s Bar on the Lower East Side. A fucking slice of heaven most will never know. And when Janey ran off, boostin’ the bootleg bags from the phony street peddler, the blue-and-whites rolled in super-hot, threw everyone against brick walls. When I check to make sure you’re alright, I find you playing all the B-Sides of the 45’s jammed into the old Wurlitzer. Like a rogue angel, you sway your hips to PP Arnold, and I know I’m lost in love. All until Lou-Lou sees orange light in the dark distance, and everyone wonders whose effigy burns brightly over on Avenue A. The New York Times’ headlines won’t shout about the daybreak swallowing us in another beautiful night, but if the bartender at Lucy’s keeps dressing like Wyatt Earp, we just might live forever, outrun the fortune teller’s prophecy that we’re already dead.