Of all the fiends I ever knew, the worst was Mack the Killer,
who lived on other people’s gold, a spendthrift and coin-spiller.
We all watched as he showered gold on mothers never wives,
we saw him fill the tweaking hands of men embracing blight
We saw them never work again, their days turned fast to waste,
we saw the good folk tumble down in ever-quicker haste
We saw their souls fall in the mire, the spark now smothered out,
we saw the men to anger turn, to cover killing doubts.
Not to build, not to think, no hand upon the tiller,
they went to their graves hungry ghosts, because of Mack the Killer.