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