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Red Tide
How are you handling this heat?
I’ve heard its murder in the street
Where every little player’s got
The fire held to his feet
Now that supply is growing thin
I think you’d better toss the towel in
Then back away sonny
From the game you cannot win
You’d better walk away sonny
When the red tide rushes in
You and your gringos have a plan
But you can’t pull it off and no one can
By moving through the shadows
With the poison on your hands
Every mother in the city cries a bit
When another little Teddy-Boy gets hit
Headlines in the morning
For the son who could not quit
A red tide in the morning
Took the son who did not fit
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The
Poetry of Daniel Harrison