Crossroads
Now, George was a good straight boy to begin with,
but there was bad blood in him someway
he got into the magic bullets and
that leads straight to Devil's work
just like marywanna leads to heroin
You think you can take them bullets and leave 'em, do you?
Just save a few for your bad days.
well...
Well, now we all have those bad days when we can't hit for shit.
The more of them magics you use,
the more bad days you have without them
So it comes down to finally
all your days being bad without the bullets
It's magics or nothing.
Time to stop chippying around and kidding yourself,
kid, you're hooked, heavy as lead
And that's where old George found himself.
Out there at the crossroads.
molding the Devil's bullets.
Now a man figures it's his bullets,
so it'll hit what he wants to hit.
But it don't always work out that way
You see, some bullets is special for a single aim.
A certain stag, or a certain person
And no matter where you aim, that's where the bullet will end up.
And in the moment of aiming, the gun turns into a dowser's wand,
and point where the bullet wants to go
(George Schmid was moving in a series of convulsive spasms
like someone in an epileptic fit
with his face distorted, and his eyes wild, like a lassoed horse
bracing his legs but something kept pulling him on.
And now he is picking up the skulls and making the circle.)
I guess old George didn't rightly know what he was getting himself into,
the fit was on him and it carried him right to the crossroads.
but there was bad blood in him someway
he got into the magic bullets and
that leads straight to Devil's work
just like marywanna leads to heroin
You think you can take them bullets and leave 'em, do you?
Just save a few for your bad days.
well...
Well, now we all have those bad days when we can't hit for shit.
The more of them magics you use,
the more bad days you have without them
So it comes down to finally
all your days being bad without the bullets
It's magics or nothing.
Time to stop chippying around and kidding yourself,
kid, you're hooked, heavy as lead
And that's where old George found himself.
Out there at the crossroads.
molding the Devil's bullets.
Now a man figures it's his bullets,
so it'll hit what he wants to hit.
But it don't always work out that way
You see, some bullets is special for a single aim.
A certain stag, or a certain person
And no matter where you aim, that's where the bullet will end up.
And in the moment of aiming, the gun turns into a dowser's wand,
and point where the bullet wants to go
(George Schmid was moving in a series of convulsive spasms
like someone in an epileptic fit
with his face distorted, and his eyes wild, like a lassoed horse
bracing his legs but something kept pulling him on.
And now he is picking up the skulls and making the circle.)
I guess old George didn't rightly know what he was getting himself into,
the fit was on him and it carried him right to the crossroads.