[Hider=No Sleep + Reading Americana Poetry + Listening to Phil Ochs]Red was the song that cut through night
That hung purple-gold, the moon like a knife
Silver and gleaming, it shown as he cried
That red mist of letters bubbling inside

His eyes wet with grief, his tongue much the same
Drowned in a dry ditch, he drank and he sang
Some tunes were black-blue, some diddies white
But none like the red that filled him that night

Onward he rode, 'til his spurs were of wine
Dripping of red, clinking in time
Like the bottles he'd passed, to his dear brother's wife
Red as the words that filled him that night

His pistol was tarnished, his pride much the same
Led by the moon, and his muzzle's flame
The flash it was blinding and led him astray
Though the iron has cooled, the red's here to stay

Black were the sobs that cut through the night
That hung purple-gold, the moon like a knife
Silver and gleaming, it shown as he cried
The black of his chamber no bullets inside[/hider]