by Zach Jones
I miss those Marlboro memories,
Smoking, watching silver screens.
Call me from a phone booth late at night.
Scratches on my LP helped me sleep.
Beat boys jumping trains,
Bumming for a bed.
Now drugstores are disappearing,
Drugstores are dead.
Give me back records,
Give me cassettes.
Drugstores are disappearing,
Drugstores are dead.
I miss real life,
I miss the truth
and politician’s bullet wounds.
Drug stores are disappearing.
Drugstores are dead.