Monterosa, your body is dead on Avenue A. Angelo,
They found you eyes open staring at the beer
Soaked floorboards. Did you want that? Did
You mind them filling your back with buckshot?
Angelo, I am angry with them all, and you Monterosa
Killed and killers, killing and dealing dope. No good
You were, no good they are. Still, I wish their fate
To be bodies stacking under the same blue smoke.
Box. The cowbell, the conga, and your corpse form the trio
That is the rhinestone pin of my failure, your failure,
Our failure, who loved, but did not rescue Angelo.
Angel, hold him, while I bury him in these clean words,
And pray to see the resurrection of the rose mountain.
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