This is the last of the washed-out summer dreams In the backseats of muscle cars and through screen doors Young love is deader than ever Blame it on gin, guilt, pills, fruad, scratch off tickets And teenage pregnancy From born to run to born to lose Without the James Dead attitude Like a brown bag hero who says Put the kids to bed tonight, cause i'm not coming back this time From stealing cigarettes from vending machines To my very first trache ring When these lips hit god's ears they say this hurts so much less than you promised it would I've got the same lips as our hero and they say no future