Red Is The Color - Steve Earle

North wind blowing like a hurricane house

Old man leaning like he’s pulling a plow

Neck bowed, bending like a willow bough

Red sky, color of the end of time

Bleeds dry running down the center line

Wise guy pretends he doesn’t see the signs

Bad news everybody talking about

A short fuse a half an inch from burning out

All used up beyond a reasonable doubt

Make way for his majesty, the prodigal king

Still taste the poison when you’re kissing the ring

Don’t say he never gave you anything

Deep breath, the calm before the storm begins

Cold sweat, pretend that you ain’t listening

Don’t bet on getting by with that again

Short ride from here to where the beast resides

Fine line that separates the shadows inside

Make mine a double shot of cyanide