It was a place in the 1940's

where all the foxes still hung up on swing

would go to lick the floors and taste the walls.

Vigil and roaring,

it held the blistered soles of vagabonds,

the cut-throats of convicts,

the shards of the lost,

the tornadoes that would come

to shoot the bull and blow some smoke.

But when it had been forked from its hole,

digested and regurgitated,

the wanderers and the lovers

shook from the hinges,

it's gravestone was a sign that read,

"WAR IS OVER...if you want it to be."

Until they killed Lennon, too.