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, fraud, scratch off tickets   and teenage pregnancy   from born to run to born to lose   without the James Dean 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