Way Low Tide

What'd they do to your world, Jack?

They tie you up like old McMurphy

and zap the lights out for you?

They press cigarette butts into your arms?

Or'd they just tie you up and throw you

in a windowless basement?

Whatever happened, you lost your mind,

or your nerve,

and nursed down bottle after bottle of cheap wine;

it killed you, Jack.

You had to know it was an endless pursuit,

there was nothing to find, not up on Desolation Peak,

Not on the road, beneath any mountain or in any

Canadian-American boy's childhood Connecticut

hideout.

You died on that beach in Big Sur,

San Francisco took you Jack.

Maybe you realized you couldn't find god

in a world that wasn't wanting to have him,

hiding in our roads, sleeping with our virgin beauty,

climbing our mountains, looking at our clouds,

holding hands with blondes, brunettes, red heads,

because these girls, they all wanted the same thing,

wanted to fuck, and you realized this somewhere

down Mexico way,

that nobody wanted to make love anymore,

and that is what scared god away,

and left you alone, high time for another bottle,

on the beach.

At low tide.