The Pox Man

Oh, he rides though forest, he rides now through the hills— The Pox Man is coming and he kills and he kills… He lays waste to the red man and the white man, too— He brings that soft darkness to both me and to you. It may come with blankets; it may come with his horse— It marks and gives you fever to run out its course. He’s a tall, solemn scarred man that fills you with dread— He may spare you your life or he’ll leave you for dead. Oh, turn from the Pox Man – to him you do not pray, His mercy is random, he has little to say. He will ride off now soon - touch the weak with his breath— He’s giver and taker – yes, we know him as death.