@wtfy2kxyz
September '83, Quebec's grey veil hung low,
Leaves like crumpled dreams scattered 'cross the floor.
Me, my sister, my old man, trudgin’ slow,
On a street where the dogs left their callin’ card lore.
Sky’s a bruised-up boxer, no fight left to give,
Air’s crisp, smells of earth and somethin’ gone wrong.
Dad’s voice, gravel and grit, cuts through the sieve,
"Look at this mess, kid, it’s Dog Shit Street’s song."
Boots crunch on leaves, each step a small crime,
First memory carved in the haze of that day.
Sister’s laugh, faint, like a bell out of time,
While the world laid bare in its sloppy, brown way.
Dog Shit Street, where innocence got its start,
Under grey skies, with the old man’s rough art.
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