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
On the day he was tried no witnesses 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
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?