another song i learned to sing on a curb when the liquor stores were all closed

There's one other song he taught me, sitting on the curb in front of the bar. He sang it from the top of his head, with his eyes closed and his chin pointed up with the streetlight on his eyelids, tapping his knee and his thigh for rhythm. He took a sip, shoved the bottle in my lap, cleared his throat and started.

well the bas tards
they shadow
the regular men
but they all
find someone
to hurt in the end
the buil dings are tall and
caste shadows so long
that i miss my son an it's time
to move on

pack up some canvas
and roll up some clothes
brush the dust off my boots
an halfcarton a smokes
it's so long
to bastards
an pi a no strokes
i'ma find where the trees went
and regular folks

the airplanes
they tra vel
over shallow ground
where alla the bastards and men can be found
i taste so much copper
an seen so much black
i promised the city i'd ne ver be back

the bastards they sang the songs from their youth
but didn't never end
the bloody pursuit
she said
DON'T dream in color
you'll never win
so i gargled and spit up
and bathed with him
i was colored
in sin
all the town
thought they knew
but i didn't have money
to buy a name for you

say
so long
you bastards
we travel again
and you won't ever see me until i am dead

when I ask him about it, he says there's no way he could ever do it again. He's never heard the song. Wasn't paying attention. There's no chance I could ever forget it. It haunts me, and every time this place starts being too much for me, I find myself singing it. I don't know how many new verses I've invented over the years. He poured out the rest of the bottle, and broke the glass. It sounded like a period, more at least than an exclamation mark. I packed up my bag and walked off.