Maniacs dangle on the lunatic fringe
On the edge of a razor
And like a door without a hinge
"The devil", they cackle
"Could be ours in a cinch"
Quicksand lies sound warning
But they won't budge an inch

Like Pilate, they fear the death of the Saint,
Yet they fancy the diamond, the palace, the paint
The coward within them clings only to that
Of lace and white satin
"No blood on my hand!"

And in the finale, clutched tightly by pain
Their glass houses shattered weeds bent in the rain
With a "why" in the mind
And a curse on the tongue
Death bellowing hungrily,
Shadows on sun

They pass into all that they have ever sown
Forsaking the answer abdicating the throne
If only they'd followed when
Christ called and walked on
They'd have silenced the madness
In the narrow road home

See also:
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59.22
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