| |
They put me in prison for the deed I've done,
For I killed the drunk driver who crippled you, son.
Your mother, my wife, she died in that wreck.
That's the other reason I broke that man's neck.
His dad was in congress and pulled lots of strings,
So well connected he could do many things.
I live in this hellhole with all sorts of men;
I’m sure glad most like me and call me their friend.
The food here is so awful, I've lost many pounds.
I'd rather feast on the vittles the guards toss the hounds.
At night we play cards and you don't dare cheat;
For if you get caught, you’ll be stomped on by feet.
Most our inmates have some sort of knife,
To help out their odds in a fight for their life
I took me a padlock and snapped it on a chain,
Then hid it in my pant-leg to keep from being slain.
I get to see you on our family day;
The worst part about it, is when you cry as you play.
Many times you question, 'dad, when can you leave? '
As the tears from your eyes dropp to my sleeve.
Our visit is now over as they wheel you away,
I whisper, 'I love you' and you see what I say.
It's time to go back to my one-room, shared cell
And try to write a song about a sad dad in jail.
Tom Zart
|
|
User Rating: |
|
6.2
/10
(6 votes) |
|
|
|
E-mail this poem to e friend