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Rodney DeCroo
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Oil Drum
We throw balled up sheets of newspaper, dead twigs and branches into a rusted oil drum. We light several matches and toss them inside. The paper catches fire and soon flames are crackling and our shadows
begin to loom and waver against the trees and the river. We pass around stolen cans of beer and pop the tabs and laugh as foam spills over our hands and onto our sneakers. My brother Chris asks if I like the taste of beer.
'Fuckin' right I do!' but the truth is I hate it. Doesn't matter though because I've already begun at thirteen to need it. We talk about girls and lie about the things we've done with them. I count each can and wonder
how many more I'll need for later that night when we go to the Ches-A-Rena to roller skate and watch the girls we've been lying about. We talk about our friend Denny sent away to Shuman Centre for burning
down the building where he lived Find more lyrics at ※ Mojim.com with his mother and sister who drink more than most men and fight almost as hard. Once they attacked two girls twirling batons in the middle of the July 4th parade because
the sister said they'd called her a whore at school. Jeff jokes and says some big mutant's probably nailing Denny's ass as we speak, but it's not funny because Lester's going to youth court next week
for stealing a handgun. He might be sent away just like any one of us could be the way things happen so fast. We're all quiet as we stare down into the oil drum at the flames that leap into the air
as if trying to fly back to the stars above us. I look at the bowed heads of my friends. It's as if we're praying or giving a moment's silence for someone or something we've lost, which is exactly what we're doing.
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