The Preacher Maxwell sat by his window before he went to bed. He heard the sound of car horn howl, and it made his body sad. His heart believed that no one’s lost who cannot be turned back. He heard the sound of a fight in the street, and it made his body sad.
I’ve seen the things you’re capable of, and I’ve tried to let them slide: the family of terrible lies that you’ve spun, your circus of amoral crimes. But if you’ve got it coming then you’ve got it coming––don’t come crying to me at the end. I am put at ease by a heathen on his knees. I’ll forgive you, but we’ll be even.
It's out of my hands now.
I can see all your loss when your jaw moves to talk, and I know you’ve been fucked from the way that you walk, and I’ll struggle to stand high and hold it all back, but I don’t need it anymore. The dirtiest of shits get to live out their lives while the loyal true friends have to give up their eyes. They smell their way to Dover and abruptly they know that only the good die alone. I’ll get no princely title on the day of my death, no choir of angels to sing me to my rest, and no chance in Heaven if I take my revenge, but God knows it feels better than sex. So if it’s a fight that you want then I’ll give you a fight. If you’ve got shit to talk, say it into the mic. You’ll wish you were dead and you’ll wish me dead too––motherfucker, I’m talking to you.