What else is there to do?
Listening to the Pogues and crying while driving
I imagine the force that kept his heart pumping blood
despite a lifetime of poisoning
I imagine it as a star exploding
It's shards lodging in the chests of poets the world over
Infecting us
Making us dance and sing
driving us to put our tears and struggles and anger into rhythm and rhyme and verse
to sing the pricks and pigs back into whatever hell they climbed out of
and raise our voices
as we raise our glasses
and sing a song for Shane
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