What is this place Great Cthulhu?
Which judged by its lowest lows
Embodies those who go by names not social device
My city the drug dealer, the homeless schizophrenic
My city the shitty landlord, the constant siren
My city the obstacle course, the affected college student
The polluted, crime-ridden, stereotyped, constantly under construction, meth capitol USA
Asshole of Seattle, my city the fucked up dead-end of a town

City, with all you possess
No wonder you weep without notice
And your people, ever cast in plastic grays and greens
Parade through drizzle, your quiet but constant drizzle
Reflecting a sunken past and a soaking present
That falls from hoods and drips down pink noses
Passing an exhaled smog

A smog of discontent, perhaps
But also a smog of resilience, of hope
Of positivity, of potential, of knowing that while this is not quite the top
It is far from the bottom

The rip of tape from skin strip after strip
Tacoma, the swamp of middle-American delusion
And so-called convenience
But its places to convene…
Places where trees still rule the earth
Where the sound crashes
Calling rain to moisture
Shells and shale to shore
Nearby the clank of trains and bicycles
Roams our city the terror
Squirming and scrapping its long claws
From rustic warehouse to graffitied coffee shop

Ancient Cthulhu, whose surroundings may origin or result from
As if with spare parts of the deep
Your mighty arms placed this town together
A dome here, a giant teapot there
Your materials seem wild but
Your plans are to rebuild

In the muck that grew you
Through some whim of fortune or mutation
Like spirits, our ancestors inspired and revived you
Inspired you to climb up from your slumber
Crack through toxic silted air and
Reclaim the oasis of our city’s destiny
No matter who or what declared it so

While our city, Tacoma
Like legends before and all things to come
Will one day sink back into its primordial creator
This place knows itself
Where it has been and where it’s going
It knows community comes from desire
That color strives from gates
That glass can only be born from fire
And this lost city, though fragile
Shall burn once more