Murder Ballad

We light the match
It starts from a spark
We let the fire catch
Eliminate the, the dark.

The singer stands to sing
Required listening from the
Blue ridge mountains
We hear them sing
'Someone's gonna die'
Songs of Saints and of Sinners.

There but for the grace of God, go I.

In a smoky club we let the record spin
And Mack the knife delights by flaying the skin
At least while Ella sings
Or Bobby Darin swings.

From New York to Berlin
Come stories of true love gone awry
Of devils and angels
There but for the grace of God, go I.

We all want to touch the flames
But not get burned
The pull of petty fate
But don't touch
Don't.

On the radio they burn up the charts
Pop songs of love gone wrong and bloody hearts
Maxwell's Silver Hammer blow
Hendrix calling out
Hey Joe, hey Joe... hey Joe.

There's always a killer
So logically someone has to die
We sing the Murder Ballad's warning
There but for the grace of God, go I
Grace of God, go I
Grace of God, go I.

Listen and I'll tell a tale
A tale where good does not prevail
A King, a Queen
A Club, a Knave
One is destined for the grave...