It’s the end of days
or so they say
in corridors of power
The Devil he rode in to town
shot the Sheriff,
ran him down
he came in with a soulless swagger
full of spite
and sinner’s glamour
a punishment sent from below
surrounded by a strange dark glow
We didn’t call him said the farmers,
herders, drifters and sundry misfits
We just want a peaceful life,
no excess drama,
no excess strife
The writers they denied it too
and drinkers said they had no clue
no engineers held the seance
that called the beast up from the chaos
the Padre had no words to say
and the Madam stayed off locked away
as cloven feet and horned head
marched a path now filled with dread
Just one small cluster kept the silence
fearing for inflicted violence
not that they could have a clue
or be expected to pay their due
It was the Mayor,
the Boss
the Rancher,
the Journalists, the ones not plastered,
moneyed men, safe from disaster
Their wages given to the demon
they knew they were all set and even
safe from all dramatic prose
ensconced in mansions well enclosed
and even though their eyes averted
the cries they heard went un-diverted
and if the guilt lay at their feet
then the Devil never skipped a beat
as six-gun swirled and pitchfork trembled
he made the rest pay prices dreadful
a savage raging debt collector
ignoring every last protector
And at the end, the balance struck
a nod was given to those higher up
the moneyed men of wealth and fame
had paid their price with others pain
and what was learnt from this disaster
was that cruelty knows one lonely master
Money, wealth, and gilded greed
are the drivers of the steed
and when you hear that rattling spur
smell that sulphur coated fur
it’s not your neighbour who’s to blame
but the Masters of your own domain
and if you want to last the rest
cut their debit, end their rest
because the Devil’s coming back
and only you can break their pact