The theater’s on fire, burning down to the ground, and the shadows are all screaming they should get outta town. I mean, it isn’t hard to see they weren’t fit for the job; they’d been out all weekend, getting droopy-eyed with that waitress, that gorgeous blonde, who they’d first met on Monroe only a few weeks ago.
But I bet the fire’s only half of it. There’s been talk on the street, letters circulating that there’s something wrong with the priest; that he’s hung up high on the upper east side in a bath-house that he’s daughters used to clean at night.
They say it’s got something to do with the force: That they stormed the city late one night years ago, leaving nothing behind but half-price shoes and a round trip ticket to Bendigo.
But who knows if it’s true; who knows if we know any of you. We’re just stuck here, watching the fire fight its way into our eyes, lighting up the sky like a flash of lightning in the dark of the night.
We’re just sitting here like a bunch of birds on the fence, staring at the neighbors like we’ve got something to defend. And when the rain settles in and washes the ashes away, we’ll forget it all and wait to see what’s put in the theater’s place.