Up Out Back Gone Gone

You've got a dirty right hand. I know you smoke with your left. Crotchbound express and a turnaround, go the little town mice, again. Gracious seeming glaziers pass out cloth wrapped bricks, fivers, and a ride to where the bars are (where party people park, that is) to the homeless. I own a tire store, but in my spare time I steal nails and screws from outbuildings then I get a friend to motor me around while I get drunk and throw them out, as we drive around the city and I like nothing more than digging my hand into the painful pounds and giving them up into the chingling sky. I say it chingles, ergo chingling. As real as anything else here. But for the love.