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Now, George was a good straight boy to begin with, but there was bad blood In him; someway he got into the magic bullets and that leads straight to Devil's work, just like marijuana leads to heroin; you think yo ucan take Them bullets or leave 'em, do you? Just save a few for your bad days Well, now, we all have those bad days when you can't shoot for shit. The more of them magics you use, the more bad days you have without them So it comes down finally to all your days being bad without the bullets It's magics or nothing Time to stop chippying around and kidding yourself, Kid, you're hooked, heavy as lead And that's where old George found himself Out there at the crossroads Molding the Devil's bullets Now a man figures it's his bullets, so it will Hit what he wants to hit But it don't always work that way You see, some bullets is special for a single aim A certain stag, or a certain person And no matter where you are, that's where the bullet will end up And in the moment of aiming, the gun turns into a dowser's wand And point where the bullet wants to go (George Schmid was moving in a series of convulsive spasms, like someone with an epileptic fit, with his face distorted and his eyes wild like a lassoed horse bracing his legs. But something kept pulling him on. And now he is picking up the skulls and making the circle.) I guess old George didn't rightly know what he's getting himself into The fit was on him and it carried him right to the crossroads