When we spoke last night of prison, it suddenly occured to me
That I am weary of these shackles that have bloodied up my thighs
Held by scalding accusations, and what you think I'll be
And I can't see my reflection when I look into your eyes.
These hours, when I'm lonesome, when I'm drifting through the snow
Fall that slipped in over the mountains, and the frigid desert sand
Storm-leaving lovers out to wander, since they don't know where to go
If you imagine that you know me, then we both know who I am.
You promised your compassion, that you wouldn't judge my skin
Wouldn't ask me to be something when you know it's what I'm not
Because a book with gilded covers might hold pauper's words within ---
Even if all my words are ten cents, I'll still bleed when I am caught.
