There’s a song we used to know
A kind of weary blues—
Some broken tune from long ago
That some of us still use.
It hangs up high in the rafters
Like smoke, it has no form—
We keep it hid like laughter
And sing out “death to the storm,
Death to the storm,
Death to the storm”
I’ve caught my rage in the making
Alive here in my hand—
But it’s bent the rod to breaking and still
I’m a hungry, hungry man.
But trouble is so underrated,
A bent and battered, rusted horn—
Calling on the great ill-fated
Who bring death to the storm,
Death to the storm,
Death to the storm
A line of cars is rolling west
-A dark river just begun—
The tramps all huddle in their best
Like a funeral in the sun;
The mayor waits on orange crates
His meager eyes go soft and warm—
As women wade the deep parade
Cheering “death to the storm,
Death to the storm,
Death to the storm!”