Place it, hear the blues and feel the reds as they travel in the heads
of nails across the chalkboard of life. No one thinks it can be slammed,
but to be given a damned about the salvation of a pour nation full of
whiskey and rye toasted to a cool crisp brown takes you down town Boston
on a cold windy day in May without the benefit of flowers or a tux. So
much in flux that the River Charles works its way down to the bay,
behind the the gray in the stable where mother and child lay nestled in
blissful slumber land waiting for the mattress of their choice while
angels call for us to rejoice!