it's true you dont meet many folks in a prison cell. the food is bad too, stale black beans and thick grey tortillas
on a tin plate. you get to scraping at that plate until that tin shines though, i can tell you, especial when the bastards
forget about you and you got nothing for company but the shit bucket and the flies. on the other hand, i got myself a sturdy
bunk and this here pea-green blanket. i aint never had no women problems in the last eight years neither. thats worth more
than a few pesos i can tell you.
when i was first brung in here, this place was already a one horse town. the buildings adobe and mud, blend right in
with the desert.
it stretches out as far as a man can see, a land of giant red boulders and cactus trees. all you want to do when down
your here is crawl down a hole and wash the dust out your mouth.
the air is hot and dry, all the scent burned out of it, except maybe when the cactus flowers come out all purples, reds
and blue and you stand there flabbergasted scratching your head at all the beauty, like watching a wida women letting down
her long black hair for the first time in a whole bunch o years.
ii
well, i said i dont get no company, but that aint entirely true. there is ole blackie who was a cell mate of mine, now
he's that there little fella with the beady eyes. that little tick bird sitting up there on the shelf of the winda. before
they hauled old blackie out he whispered hisself in that little birds ear so that when they fired a volley all they killed
was a bird..
he's a pesky fella.. the bird i mean.. well.. blackie. i bin feeding him worms out my biscuits.
