On a hill,
on a tunnel,
on a Sunday.
We were host to the end of the world.
We were young,
we were stoned,
we were hungry,
and the three of us watched it in awe.
And the air,
and the traffic,
and the dead,
hung and stared as the sun shrank to nought.
Hung and prayed,
hung and wailed,
hung and waited,
on a hill on a tunnel on a Sunday.
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