In every milk and whiskey sodden juice joint President Roots should be playing their lonesome threnodies, bucking up the unlucky and providing the terminally downcast with a little succour and a modicum of cheer, for they are the scent of woodsmoke that this mildewed world needs, the tinkling of mandolined airs that brings bittersweet joy to these damp dives we must drown ourselves in, the jingling of something real in our memories, the ringing of something true. God bless their clear blue eyes shining in the mud of modernity.
Justin Currie (Del Amitri)
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