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Postcards of the hanging
They've taken the water from the wishing well
They've left not a single story to tell
and all the while they teach us of hell
and say "theres no rest for the good soul"
Generations fall, daily, to beating drums
to unholy harlets and bottles of rum
no longer wishing for their poor dreams to come
instead, just turn their diamonds to coal
Fortune tellers and magicians have tried
to lift this poor curse from those who abide
to laws that have tossed pure conscience aside
yet, disappear when there is no sign of gold
The good man fell dead from a shattered belief
that good will towards all would ease all of grief
and sorrows and hurt would be left for the thief
but he passed with his story untold
