It crawls on his back, won't ever let him be. Stares at the walls until the cind er blocks can breathe. His eyes have gone away, escaping over time. He rules a c rowded nation inside his mind. He knows that night like his hand. He knows every move he made. Late shift, the bell that rang, a time card won't fade. 10:05 his truck pulled home. 10:05 he cl imbed his stair, about the time he was accused of being there. But I'm not the man. He goes free as I wait on the row for the man to test the r ope he'll slip around my throat... and silence me. On the day he was tried no witness testified. Nothing but evidence, not hard to falsify. His own confession was a prosecutor's prize, made up of fear, of rage a nd of outright lies. But I'm not the man. He goes free as the candle vigil glows, as they burn my clo thes. As the crowd cries, "Hang him slow!" and I feel my blood go cold, he goes free. Call out the KKK, they're wild after me. And with that frenzied look of half-dem ented zeal, they'd love to serve me up my final meal. Who'll read my final rite and hear my last appeal? Who struck this devil's deal?
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