I'm Hinbad, convict, locked up for everything,

Twisting on a thin finger like an old ring.

I'm Warden Roscoe, to lock in and lock out

What a man's fool mind and body may be about,

I'm thirty-one, I'm Freeman. That's a lie.

Nineteen bucks from a grocery store is why,

I'm next to Hinbad, across from Foggy, who

Cut up his loving mother, the way they do.

Garbold's my given name. I'm not in jail.

I never touched the guy. His name was Traill,

The Warden's wife. My maiden name was Wilde.

This is no place for children, if I had a child.

Joe boils potatoes. Joe makes the kettle, go.

Joe ties up empty potato sacks, I'm Joe.

Wrong, wrong ha. been, long wreaked and done,

And I sadden in, my cell, God knows the one

He sent here in His pity to study His cold,

But I'm overlooked, He forgets that I grow old,

Hinbad, speaking for Freeman, Garbold, Traill,

Foggy, and Mrs. Roscoe, and God, Whose nail

He has not driven and hammered as He could

To build even with this green this rotten wood

His Own huge jail where this outgrown one stood.