another mark upon the
shit-stained plaster wall
he stopped counting 'em
too many days gone by
he's likely doing time
for someone else's crime
he can't remember what
got him ended up back
in stir this time around
he either did it or was framed
at some point it seemed
just not to matter anymore
on those rare occasions he
was loose and on his own
he'd sit there staring out
the open bedroom window
longing for the freedom of
those rusty jailhouse bars
whatever game that was
being played out there
he never made the team
and didn't know the score
now all that's left for him is
this old revolving iron door
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