On the westmost banks of nowhere, come live in Aldergrove. 
Come live where pastel cars 
and pastel homes get buried in the stove. 
In ash fortresses we come to learn the late Earl Grey,
the butcher bill, donning a manleather apron; he applies
the flavored lipstick of the day. 
'Cause man's a zoo, out there where freedom rings,
Bittersweet, when burning hair smells like home,
and each and every memory, plucked sweetly, stings.
Men grow twisted sideways out here, in the dust
when the sun sets fast and rises low
like brambles of photography-- we rust.
and we rust until we rest
smiles cut into our chest
Until with our final breath, the dawn;
Only then, in the end, we'll have it won.

All the pieces. All of them