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.

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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.

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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.