The Ballad of John Law

Lyrics

London air, April of '94.
Smelled of gunpowder and a closing door.
Edward Wilson on the damp ground.
For the love of a woman, not for a pound.
Just a gambler with a steady hand.
Had to run. Find a new land.

So he crossed the water to the Regent's court.
France was broke, a ship run short.
He laid his cards on the table there.
Not kings and queens, just ink and air.
Said, "Your gold is heavy, your debts are deep.
I'll print you a promise while your kingdom sleeps."
The first notes from the Banque Générale.
May of '16, a story to tell.
Smelled like tomorrow. Felt like trust.
A little paper, rising from the dust.

And this is the ballad of John Law.
Who saw a future nobody saw.
He gave them paper, they called it gold.
A story too beautiful to be told.
He dreamed a river of paper and ink,
and watched his whole world start to sink.

Then came the fever, the Mississippi scheme.
A Louisiana fever dream.
Gold in the swamps, a paradise shore.
And Paris wanted more, and more, and more.
On Rue Quincampoix, a human sea.
Sweat and perfume and raw decree.
A hunchback renting out his spine as a desk.
Putting a whole life's hope to the test.
Shares hit ten thousand livres, and then...
The madness starts all over again.

And this is the ballad of John Law.
Who saw a future nobody saw.
He gave them paper, they called it gold.
A story too beautiful to be told.
He dreamed a river of paper and ink,
and watched his whole world start to sink.

May of 1720, the music stopped.
The paper promise finally dropped.
The clamor on the street turned to a hush.
The terrible silence after the rush.
Just worthless sheets in a trembling hand.
A language no one could understand.
He built a house of faith on a gambler's prayer.
And woke to find just empty air.

December cold. A carriage on the road.
Leaving behind a heavy load.
The man who owned all of France one day,
just slips into the dark and fades away.
They say he died in Venice, old and poor.
Playing cards behind a quiet door.
Did he see the faces from Rue Quincampoix?
Did he still believe in the ghost of his voice?

Yeah, this is the ballad of John Law.
He drew a map... then he showed the flaw.
He just showed us the flaw.