Red, orange and gold it fell,
Straight from Satan, fresh from hell,
All living things it devoured,
While the citizens ran and cowered,
Meanwhile the fiddler played his lyre,
In tribute to the burning fire,

People screamed and ran and cried,
While everywhere innocents died,
It covered everything in gold,
But he thought it a sight to behold,
While on the roof he played his lyre,
In tribute to the murderous fire,

Crumpling buildings to the ground,
Chasing children like a hound,
It’s red flame raced down every street,
There was no escaping its heat,
Unless you’re the fiddler and his lyre,
Playing tribute to this searing fire,

He saw children crying from the pain,
He saw Woman screaming in vain,
He saw men run to meet their end,
And yet to pity he did pretend,
While the fiddler played on his lyre,
In tribute to this destructive fire,

He saw building that once were grand,
Reduced to little piles of sand,
He saw people’s homes go up in flame,
But did not feel a bit of shame,
This fiddler while he played his lyre,
In tribute to this vicious fire,

They say that once the deed was done,
Once he had had his wicked fun,
That he laughed aloud,
As if he were proud,
This fiddler as he played his lyre,
In tribute to the everlasting fire.