I rode by night-train down to Cañon Diablo to work on the rails and lay low for a while, but never a town here on God's holy earth did drink itself drunk on such venom and bile. I made my way swiftly to a bar down on Hell Street. Above it, a broken sign read "Road to Ruin". A couple of outlaws flew out into daylight, their whiskey undrunk, left behind in the gloom. Tell Mary's harlots to stop what they're doing and gather around to sing this song of ruin. They at once were surrounded by dozens of cowboys whose hands were just itching at their holstered heat. Then all in the blink of a milky crow's eyeball, that onslaught of guns thundered Hell in the street. So they planted those corpses in sands red as bull's blood where they stiffened and bloated and bled out their wounds. Then those drunk, old cowboys rode down there with shovels, disinterring those outlaws from their cruel, arid tombs. Tell all those bandits to quit what they're doing and gather around to hear this song of ruin. "I just can't allow that a man would buy whiskey and not live to drink it," said a man like a goat. "We'll give 'em what's theirs, boys, so take up that bottle!" Then I helped them pour liquor down their slackened throats. We stood there in silence, me and that band of cowboys, as the sun climbed grotesquely like a carrion fly. That star found us sober so we left through the canyons, leaving two piles of rocks where those cold bodies lie. Tell all those cowboys to think what they're doing and ponder the sorrow in this song of ruin.
Гуру Песен
Son of Perdition - Judas Iscariot - Part I