Prophet signs along the road, feigning signs of gates of gold, idolizing preachers preaching slavery.

Wooden crosses in the sand, fearing God has lost the land, facing thoughts of facing lots of people placing faith in one man’s bravery.

Broken men upon the street, holes in socks that line their feet, rationalize the acts that make them crazy.

Corruption reeks and breaks and burns, so feeling lost at every turn, they grab their guns and hit the streets, lie and rob and kill and cheat, but fail to face the guilt on their own faces.

And they’re never going to know, when the winds come crashing down.

Intoxicate to break the shell, just to profess it’s all the spell, and pretend it’s all been rooted in inebriation.

Soldiers fighting wars on drugs, kicking through the streets of blood, miss your boy and his drunken smile, as he saunters into the shadowed aisle, tumbling down ‘til his skull is black and beaten.

Crime and Punishment on the road, the things you do for greed and gold, while you wear the guilt like Dostoevsky’s agent.

You try to cry and fight the war, protest and shout, your voices roar, a problem solved, another comes, it’s the Civil War then it’s World War I, and you’re lost in a boundless pit of abomination.

And you’re never going to know, when the winds come crashing down.

Lonesome speech, nobody around, in an empty room, can’t make a sound, blind are the eyes of the closest to the man who’s bleeding.

A tired man can drag you down, mind the bite of the dismal hound, he’ll cry for help with a ghastly wail, you’ll try to help to no avail, he’ll gnash his teeth and bite the hand that feeds him.

The joke sits before your eyes, a satire of prodigious size, and once you see then suddenly life has meaning.

Like yesterday the sun will rise, the bell will toll under broken skies, and the man who sits on a broken floor with a padlock on the iron door, will miss it all while he’s lost in his lonesome weeping.

And he’s never going to know, that the winds came crashing down.