Red Is The Color

North wind blowing like a hurricane house
Old man leaning like he’s pulling a plow
Neck bowed, bending like a willow bough
Red sky, color of the end of time
Bleeds dry running down the center line
Wise guy pretends he doesn’t see the signs
Bad news everybody talking about
A short fuse a half an inch from burning out
All used up beyond a reasonable doubt
Make way for his majesty, the prodigal king
Still taste the poison when you’re kissing the ring
Don’t say he never gave you anything
Deep breath, the calm before the storm begins
Cold sweat, pretend that you ain’t listening
Don’t bet on getting by with that again
Short ride from here to where the beast resides
Fine line that separates the shadows inside
Make mine a double shot of cyanide