Young Johnny Tweed had grown, indeed, to be a special sort of breed,

a preacher man, God's biggest fan, as he spread the gospels' seed.

His honor—strong, his patience— long, taking good care of his flock.

Yet, secretly he longed to be up on stage just playing rock.

 

His fiddle playing (goes without saying), was the best you ever saw.

See, Johnny learned in hell some burned wishing on the Monkey's Paw.

He'd practice nights— talented delights— soon spread around the block,

many came, so thus the name— Fiddle playin' preacher who could rock!

 

Yet, down below dark forces know the opportunity that was lost;

for years ago, as you all know, that golden fiddle came with a cost.

As Satan fumed, his anger bloomed, each time Johnny drew his bow,

he planned his attack to gain it back and put a halt to Johnny's show...






All Hallows eve — cards up his sleeve — old Satan swept into town,

beaten once before (he knew the score) now he really would throw down.

Sure enough, though times were tough, there was Johnny 'neath the moon,

plucking Amazing Grace, to Satan's distaste; (he loathed that awful tune).

 

You back again, dark prince of sin? asked Johnny smugly, with a grin.

Once wasn't enough, you know I'm tough, I'm the best that's ever been.

Old crafty demon, his smile gleamin', opened up his golden case,

a bejeweled fiddle, hopes dropped a little, a hush fell about the place.



A gorgeous thing, its shimmering strings — so lustrous in Luna's glow.

Johnny stared in awe, then with a flick of claw, the devil drew a silver bow.

The crowd stood transfixed as harmonic mix wafted softly through the air;

Lucifer played on, well after dawn, the town's folk couldn't help but stare.






They split the earth from their cumbrous girth, as dark demons came to see,

Beelzebub got down, filled up the town, with satanic harmony.

Old Elsa Finster, the local spinster, mouthed a quiet, whispered prayer,

echoing sentiments of those who went to watch Johnny playing there.



Fiery cacophonies flew from his symphony as he worked that silver bow.

Demons hissed with iniquitous bliss as they watched the Devil's show.

Yet, Johnny stood, tall as he could, his hands raised up in adoration,

to his God above whose agape love gave him his determination.




 

Beelzebub now done, he cried, I've won—no way you'll beat me, boy!

You're in a spot, a demon's knot, kid, I played you like a toy...

Johnny crossed his heart, said, Before I start, bow your heads in silence, please.

He began to pray as the light of day filtered softly through the trees.



Johnny looked to the sky, prayed, Lord I'll try my very best to win,

for it's your name I proclaim, and one simple fiddle made of tin —

would sound far sweeter than the fancy bleater offered up here as prize.

He drew his bow, hunkered down, real low, with tears streaming from his eyes.



The consonance – tunes resonance – carried gently by the breeze,

made grown men cry, the ladies sigh — dropped Satan to his knees.

Each soft refrain, the Devil tried in vain, to block from pointed ears,

Johnny's composition, now joined by musicians, long dead for many years.





 

All Heaven's chorus– who've gone before us – joined in with jubilant song;

to the Devil's disdain, it began to rain, as he unwittingly sang along.

Strength depleted, Satan hung his head, defeated, — That boy surely has a gift...

Each new chord which drifted forward, the devil's smugness began to lift.



When Johnny was done, the battle won, Satan raised a heavy head.

Now the town had gathered, all the masses blathered, Now sin is surely dead!

Once again, to his chagrin, Satan laid the bejeweled fiddle at Johnny's feet

Johnny grinned, Devil, you just can't win, 'cause with God ...I can't be beat!




 

He played Fire on the mountain—run boy run

Devil's in the house of the rising sun,

chicken in the bread-pan 'a pickin' out dough...

Satan get on back, now, go boy, go! ...