A collaborative blues poem written by the Stringtown Prison Poetry Workshop.
This time is so hard to do here, I think I’ll go and pray.
I say this time is so hard to do here, I think I’ll just go and pray.
But someone just tol me gawd went on a holiday.
In Stringtown Prison the men number four-one-eight.
Yeah, I say in Stringtown Prison the men number four hundred, one-eight.
Cross this lonely country, 418 women wait.
Oh I’m so lonely Lord, I wish somebody would write.
I say I’m so lonely Lord, I wish somebody would just write.
Let the dog bark in the envelope and even that’ll be all right.
Well you and I are the only ones left baby, the only ones left alive.
Yeah baby, I say you and I are the only two goddam people left alive.
And now here you are telling me that I should take a dive.
This place is a cemetery, folks, each cell a cold tombstone.
I say this place is a cemetery, people, and each cell is a cold tombstone.
The spirit of decay just seeps deep into your bone.
My baby says she wrote me, and I know what she says is true.
Yeah, my baby says she wrote me, and I know what she says is true.
But somebody robbed the stagecoach carrying the mail and now what’m I gonna do?
Lord it was better when I had some wine to drink.
Yes Lord, it was a helluva lot better when I had some cheap wine to drink.
But now I ain’t got wine but only time to sit and think.
Yes Lord, I’m out of marijuana, out of uppers too.
I say I’m clean outta marijuana, and out of uppers too.
The guards are on a rampage, and boy am I sure blue.
Gonna leave this joint one day folks, and I ain’t lookin’ back.
Say I’m gonna leave this joint one day folks and ain’t ever lookin’ back.
Gonna catch the next thing rollin’ and hope it don’t jump the track.
From Warning: Hitch Hikers May Be Escaping Convicts, 1980, Moonlight Publications.
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