It crawls on his back, won't ever let him be. Stares at the walls
until the cinder blocks can breathe. His eyes have gone away, escaping
over time. He rules a crowded 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 climbed 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 rope 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 and of outright lies.
But I'm not the man. He goes free as the candle vigil glows, as they
burn my clothes. 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-demented 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?
