The Angry Preacher

The journey started years ago in the goldfields of the East
Began the angry preacher when he buried the deceased
His was a road without foundations that was built on moving sands
And all that he relied on were those sinews in his hands
From every pit he always pulled his head above the rim
When many were assured this would be the death of him

Someone said he learned his trade exploring in Brazil
Or was it Argentina? - where the fever made him ill
It was there he wrote his story down, but only for a bet
And the National Geographic took his cheapjack novelette
And some cried out in wonder as he went out on a limb
But most thought his dexterity was to be the death of him

Many said he never ran, but he covered miles of street
His city winter overcoat dragged a'heavy round his feet
And the rat inside his pocket he had brought up to believe
That you never show your heart unless you wear it on your sleeve
And his life was but a uniform and chosen as a whim
And surely self-indulgence was to be the death of him?

When the ruin was rebuilt to the developer's desire
And later on the crowds had gone and the building was on fire
He was broken, but unbending in his widely known belief
That where you find a jewel, you will always find a thief
He took his cup and he purposefully filled it to the brim
And neither guilt nor innocence would be the death of him

The wake ran out as quickly as the Guinness and Vermouth
His epitaph began "A Coward Hides Behind The Truth..."
But no one could remember how the rest of it had gone
So in the chilly evening it was this he rested on
It was winter on the goldfields, and the light was now too dim
To notice what deceit or rot had been the death of him