Scratches On the Wall

Four men standing in a row and then one laid across, Just sticks of time and marks upon the wall, A measurement of attitude, of loneliness and pain, But others see it as a lot of scrawl. Sticks of time, a calendar of wasted days and years, Just scratches of a life that's gone to waste, While taking time to tell a tale of life behind these bars, With years ahead there's never any haste. Four men standing in a row and then one laid across, It's now a crowd that stands upon the wall, As five men turn to twenty-five, then eighteen thousand strong, With fifty years of scratching on the wall. Fifty years, an army strong, the witnesses of death, Accusers to be first to cast a stone, Such ridicule and torment is a thing that I accept, For there is not a way I can atone. Four men standing in a row and then one laid across, Just four men and the one who holds them tight, Which binds me in this prison for a life and then a day, And nothing I can do will make it right.