The Devil is in his counting house
Counting out his souls.
Only he knows for whom the bell tolls.
He shouts to cast the net on the other side.
Laughing and chuckling, as usual he lied
Whispering, “don’t fret little fish you’ll get fried”.
Stoking the coals as the gullible he polls,
It’s twenty oh eight and getting late.
Driving the quick wind of the dead
Screaming souls try to say what hasn’t been said.
With no time to put it all to bed
Having run and lost life’s race
The Devil is close with his dark embrace.
His foul breath
Shrieking wind, say hello to death.
What do you believe young knave?
To evil are you yet to be a slave?
Fear bubbling up fermenting
The very yeast of your bowels,
Can you feel how your heart howls?
Have you the inner faith?
Do you believe fair lies the land?
Or take some cards and play a hand,
Life being like tide drawn sand?