Springsteen slid his
Greasy fingers up, down the
Neck of his steel guitar; hard
Lips saturated in
Motor oil, face
All man sweat and corn
Stubble, his skin the
Colour of solvent red diesel, when
He spoke his voice was
Like rubble, gravel in the gears of
A big truck. Even at sixty
Five Charlize thought he’d
Be a good fuck.
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