I Never Could Get the Hang of Thursdays

not still enough to front the storm
a too familiar scent of altoids and beer
hangs the rye anniversary with Dave
real man full of trouble here in Philly
on tender hooks in radio silence
kills the aliens, the little man in the room
for what i did for half-erased billboards
that commute sentences from 50 or 85 years
those mechanics of clairvoyant cartographers
there is no lastly in the resurrected city
payment is due before that drink is over
and like any professional, take time to stretch
because in a former life, i took your money
i still know what to hold close to the chest