They jump from bridges round here,
Get blamed for delaying the traffic,
Tie blooms to the railings and leave them to wither,
to remind us we die if we need to remember.
Three days for the flowers to wilt
One less in the swelt of the summer
Deadheads bow brown in a semblance of grief
For the blood and bone bedlam that played out beneath.
They name bars after illness round here
Like it's funny how many go Cuckoo
In a town full of locals that self-medicate
The CPN made her referral too late;
In estate agents' bluster it isn't made clear,
They jump from bridges round here.