The ballad of ashes with an alley-battered tongue. The jukebox with a wooden leg and scratched soulsong that skips. The bullet-fed last breath and the unsigned love letter on its deathbed. The broken wing and the coffin that doubles as a crooked clock. The coyote with a spine of knives and the dark train of distances traveling from one busted heart-town to another. Hear them sing and sing, singing of better days to come.