on the eighth day...
built this city outta warm clay bricks,
stood outside the walls for harps and sharp sticks,
another stray kitten's elated to play chicken,
cause everyday it rain the same array of clay pigeons,
they were tirin, the target's been over the same apartments,
i mean you could pick em off by just recallin where your arms was,
now they wanna pick and choose the armors,
click and use the weapons til the city lose its marbles,
it was fuses over charcoals in a barrel used for garbage,
they would gather all the fighters up and barbecue the harvest,
satan's little starlets in the dark tryin to pry you open,
and shake a writer out his times new roman, i'm all...
slow motion baby, i'm in a zone,
so frozen, not a part of the phone home quotient.
instead i dance around fire cutters in the sky
singin "just how low is your lowest low tide?"
low enough to gather up the halibuts
scatter up the beach before the water's back to hassle us,
meanwhile the mayor's on some art-crime camel clutch,
and glamour submits to the lowest standards yet.
civil war if his vision isn't yours,
if his definition differ send a pig to kick his door.
'oink oink' bellow from the bacon with the brawniest frame,
that roll on your hood like tawny kitaen,
and money, nobody considers you a threat,
more d-students dreaming of pea shooters, bet,
you ain't project gunplay, you project runway,
gentle and apprehensive 20 ways to sunday,
and i roam around the motor way with poker faces only seen
on older apes who know how many soldiers made it home today.
damn, that's freedom with a fee,
i wash my face in the sea. see?
how low is your lowest low tide?
how low is your lowest low tide?
it was lower than the lowest anybody'd ever known,
it was low, it was far, it was wide,
and the townsfolk stand, pullin clams out the sand
for the feast that would celebrate the fight,
but the elders spoke, and said the shore's no joke
and the tide had returned that night.