Looking at these boots makes me feel like all of Classic Rock Radio is trying to push itself headfirst out of my ladyparts. A girl needs a good heavy shitkicking foundation when trying to step light through all of these Hotel Californias and Houses of the Rising Suns, waiting for the levee to break and feeling about as faded as my jeans. Every thunderstorm this summer has sounded exactly like that slow part with the piano in “Layla.” Please either hide the tequila tonight or be ready with the lawyers, guns, and money. The boots only get me so far.
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