Monday, June 8, 2015

6746. A ROAMING IN THE GLOAMING

A ROAMING IN THE GLOAMING
And swing low sweet chariot too and I can't say
a word about it : my legs are the sheriff's now and
this jail cell gots no key. You see. His car was big
and they pushed me in; chains on my hands now, not
that plastic crap. No real food two days on. My eyesight
got a blemish, I see black dots. As if robbing a wayside
liquor store wasn't enough, now the mailman says I stole
his change and his wallet  -  well, I did, but so what.
-
A man's got a perfect right to live and to do what he has
to to do so and I say to Hell with the law. There ain't none 
and shouldn't be none to cover that. And then like you know
when those Italian ladies go around say 'Madonna!' this
or that  -  they say it like an exclamation, like 'MaDon!'  -
they say it in the kitchen here all the time, food cart ladies
and the ones who feed the guards, I never know what is
meant. Good things? Bad things? They want something
for me, or from me? No one says, and I don't know.
-
So, just like that, if ignorance is bliss, and if I don't know
no better, then no one can expect anything from me. I don't
have to pretend even; I just really don't know. And the back
of my neck is hot, and sweaty. They throw me a filthy towel
and say 'pat yourself down, and shut up.' Damn again,
I wish I was free.

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