I’ve always had a bit of an obsession with the “crossroads” stories, from the legendary bluesman Robert Johnson, who sold his soul at the crossroads in exchange for being able to play the blues.
The demons hessian sack
He’ll reach into your heart
find all those pieces
torn apart and bring em back.
The good and the bad
battling for the surface.
Heat like a furnace.
He’ll probe your mind
with his molten fingers of brimstone
digging for that touch.
That touch to take you to hell.
As he ignores your tearful yell.
But its what you wanted.
You stood at the crossroads
trembling and hopeful.
As you bury your box in the gravel.
He’ll smash your brain to bits
with his unholy gavel.
There’s no coming back
he’s got you in his hessian sack.
He’s a god and a demon.
He’s good and bad.
Evil and fair as you tremble there.
The hounds howl into the night,
smelling blood and a fight.
He’ll take you in his arms
And hold you tight.
Its time to stop give up the fight.
as your dragged crying into the night.
He laughs at your tears,
cause he’s a god and a demon
and he’s caught you coming back.
As he feeds you bile and all that’s vile,
He laughs at your pain.
In his hessian sack.
He’s a god and a demon
and there aint no going back.
Your heart in his fiery hand
you gotto know there’s no coming back.
From the crossroads and across the track.
You sold your soul in blood
fightings no good,
And he’s got you in his hessian sack.
He’s a god and demon
And you aint never coming back.