[a canção do diabo]

YOU can never go a-hunting
With just a flintlock and a hound
You won't go home with a bunting
If you blow a hundred rounds

It takes much more than wild courage
Or you'll hit the tattered clouds
You must have just the right bullets
And the first one's always free

You must be careful in the forest
Broken glass and rusty nails
If you're to bring back something for us
I have bullets for sale

Two, three, four

Why be a fool when you can chase away
Your blind and your gloom
I have blessed each one of these bullets
And they shine just like a spoon

To have sixty silver wishes
Is a small price to pay
They'll be your private little fishes
And they'll never swim away

I just want you to be happy
That's my only little wish
I'll fix your wagon and your musket
And the spoon will have its dish




(Tom Waits/William Burroughs)
Now, George was a good straight boy to begin with
But there was bad blood in him someway
and he got into the magic bullets
that lead straight to the Devil's work
Just like marijuana 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, we all have those bad days when we can't hit for shit
And 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 take what he wants
But it don't always work out that way
You see, some bullets are special for a single target
a certain stag or a certain person
And no matter where you aim, that's where the bullet'll end up
And in the moment of aiming, the gun turns into a dowser's wand
and points 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 contorted and his eyes wild like a lassoed horse
bracing his legs, but something kept pulling him on
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

Tom Waits Crossroads lyrics, para o meu amigo e poeta Black Rider
Ride On, man, Come on along!