The clanking of rifles on shoulder bones
heard over the crash of collapsing homes
And at the board John Byrd strokes his beard,
ensuring armageddon is equalized.
Last sound man on Earth: Good John Byrd
Young boys dressed in black put tools in their belts, push back their hats
and practice their best North Cackalacka drawl,
as daddy reinforces the basement door
The sons ignore his blatant fear,
imagining their hero with the VU meter
And the crackling flesh was crystal clear
it was hell on the Earth, but sweet on the ears
Last sound man on Earth: Good John Byrd