Author: Francis Santaquilani
My girls, my angels, were
Asleep in the back seat when
We passed the Cherokee Motel
On Cherokee Boulevard.
They didn't see the bunch pile
Out of the black and silver jag
Below the flickering indian head sign.
That was just for me to see. It was
Just for me to know that they
Were up to no good. They didn't
See someone's blonde daughters, in
Low-cut dresses, walk out arm-in-arm
With someone's tall, dark, handsome,
Crimson-suited son. His boys
Trailed, clutching brown bags and
Dragging luggage. It was just for me
To see the devil and his entourage
Escorting someone's fallen angels
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