| Joliet, she says, is the darkest part of a man
|
| It’s angry and slick
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| Into her letters writes
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| through herself each time
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| she thinks of him
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| Trips her way down south
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| into mystery’s mouth
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| and he follows her there
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| It’s what she doesn’t say
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| that makes you want to stay
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| and try to comfort her
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| I talked to the cousins of people who knew you
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| I asked them the questions they expected to hear
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| Like maybe a killing went down in your town
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| Maybe it’s the prison
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| or the birth of barbed wire
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| Joliet, she says, is the darkest part of a man
|
| It’s shaped like liberty’s bell
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| cracked and common law
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| and stretched out over its flaws
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| like an ink-less well
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| The hanging judge in town
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| records her comments down
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| she saves the crowd the truth —
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| and deals with it herself
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| Fills that hollow well
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| with nothing left to prove
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| I talked to mountains and streams that pushed through there
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| I talked to the trees that had no fruit to bear
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| to the colorless people that sat there
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| beneath her
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| curled up, stared
|
| I talked to the cousins of people who knew you
|
| I asked them the questions they expected to hear
|
| Like maybe a killing went down in your town
|
| Maybe it’s the prison
|
| or the birth of barbed wire
|
| Joliet |