He wanted to be great. He learned guitar.
Went off and practised in the woods, They said
years later once he was well-known, and dead
he'd sold his soul. And one night in a bar
he may have said that, to explain a song,
said hellhounds dogged his trail, that one dark night
at the cross-roads, he'd left the paths of light
to play the devil's music, But it's wrong
to trust an artist trying to explain
where it all comes from. We'll say anything
if it sounds good in rhyme, or sweet to sing.
He drank the poisoned whisky, died in pain
he lived fast, wrote songs, and took stupid risks
and all we have of him is a few discs.