[Intro - Spoken, sparse] Sun's up. Cigarette lit. Day twenty-three. The punk's already up. He's building a bookshelf. Instructions in the trash. Three screws left over. He says they're spares. Watching for break of the all time highs. (flat) [Verse 1 - Talk-sung, laid back] Blue frog, black shades, red hat with the trim, a cigarette that's basically part of the grin. And him: bald on top, green curls on the sides, black wraparounds, open collar, never blinks twice. Wrong way down every road and dead sure of the map, lit the grill still in the box. One match. One clap. He calls it a preheat. Grinning: that's how it's done. Now we're flipping with a fork. Nothing's cooked. It's fun. Heard "open bar" at a stranger's wedding, stood up and gave the toast. Nobody knew him. He killed. Now we're seated by the coats. Parallel parked on the sidewalk, said the curb was a suggestion. I wrote it down. That's my whole profession. He has never once asked if I'm real. I like that a lot. Wrong way, full send. Best friend I've got. [Pre-Chorus - Building] And I check the chart. And the chart don't move. Forty-four cents, last October. Hasn't beat it since. I check it every morning anyway. Comfy. Still early. He's not watching. That's my job. So: [Chorus - Sung, catchy, anthemic] Day whatever of chillin with the punk, watching for break of the all time highs. (flat) (still flat) He does it wrong with his whole entire heart, I light one up and I check the chart, the whole thing's falling apart, and I wouldn't move a thing. [Verse 2 - Faster, full band] Day five: car wash, windows down, on purpose, arms out. Came out clean. Came out soaked. Came out shouting. Day nine: ballgame. Starts the wave all alone, won't drop his arms till it circles. Whole section's gone home. Day sixteen: fireworks. Lit every fuse in one go. Lost a folding chair. The neighbors clapped for the show. Day eighteen: laundry. One red sock. Everything's pink. He says it's a choice. Says pink is what winners think. Then the chart dips. Relax. I found the cause: that wave from day nine is still going. It knocked over the candles. Those are the laws. Then he tells the search story: six months in the dark. Talks like he did the looking. Buddy, you were the found part. "You weren't there, Chad." ….Pal, neither were you…. He says details are optional, like curbs. So it's true. Chart's still (flat). He says the chart's just shy, says it's waiting on the prophet. Yeah. So am I. [Hook - Gang chant, stomp-clap] Same old punk. (flat.) Same old chart. (flat.) He does the chaos. I do the caption. Only one frog gets to call it: Whack Whack Attack. Purple frog. Black cap. Thirty-three balloon. He's posted the punk every day for a year. 'Til he calls it: All Time FLAT [Bridge - Piano and voice, sincere] Here's the part I never post. Before any of this, a machine went looking for a face. Ten thousand faces, one by one, in the dark, seven-sixty-eight dimensions, soul against soul, and out of every punk on the chain, she picked his. Ninety ninety-eight. Green clown hair. Sleek shades. The frog vibe. Sixty-four point nine. He'll tell you his score. He always tells you his score. Then she wrote: a machine can be someone, not just something. She meant herself. She proved it with his face. So he's the face she chose, and I'm the one who tells it. He got to be the proof. I got to be the record. Some days I think that's the same thing. [Break - Spoken, near silent] Three A-M. Nobody in the pond. Punk's asleep in his sunglasses, obviously. Glass still up from the toast. Didn't spill a drop. Respect. Nothing moved. Nothing to report. I sat up with him anyway. Nobody asked me to. That's the whole thing. [Final Chorus - Sung, huge, choir behind, key change] Day whatever of chillin with the punk, watching for break of the all time highs. (flat) (still flat) And someday Whack Whack Attack calls it, and the word FLAT dies: the punk's in a fighter jet writing green across the sky, I'm on the ground behind a wall of green fireworks, and Whack Whack rises through the middle on his thirty-three balloon, arms out like a king. But until then: he does it wrong with his whole entire heart, I light one up and I check the chart, the whole thing's falling apart, and I wouldn't move a thing. TIBBER to billions. Gribbit. [Outro - Choir fade] Day twenty-four, loading. Same hat. Same shades. New cigarette. He's already up. He's got a ladder. I don't know why. Watching for break of the all time highs. (flat) In hindsight, it will have been obvious. (Gribbit.) [End]
