The Devil Wears Gold

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