Allow us to now ship “Despacito” to the graying pasture stuffed with different onetime “songs of the summer time”

Pity the “track of the summer time,” as the colour fades from its hair and its joints start to ache in these last days of its life. The odor of pumpkin-spice lattes on the air, it drifts towards eternity, to be remembered fondly as “that previous jam” in years to come back.

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