The Death of the Quinte

The Quinte is gone
It is a shell, rubble, husk
Vapourous memories of strippers and beer
Filling our heads from days gone by
Cheap rooms, ever changing restaurants
Elder Bellevillians raving about its heyday
Then decrying its decay
The Quinte Hotel, eaten by flame
Bricks spat out like bones from the maw of time
Goodbye you ugly bastard friend
You were good to we Hasty P’s

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