A Glut Of Afterglow

During every weekend you’ve given me,
it’s like there’s a glut of afterglow and
we’re waitin’ for the greasy hash browns
at Joe’s Diner when we’re spent from lovin’.
At 2am, you say, “Play number 14, Babe.”
It’s Frank, always Frank, and my feet are
bare resting on yours, forget the hash browns.

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