They’ll hang me at dawn

I was a painter of truth

But they broke my brushes and spilt my paints

Tore my canvas and murdered my saints

And my repute they marred with taints

But I picked a paper and ink’s hue

And with words painted as true

But they took my paper and pen too

And threw me to a dark dungeon

So I couldn’t see the sun rise and set

Yet my mind still flew as free

Gathering what was left of imagination

And sang from the heart

Till my voice shook their very ground

And their surly faces twitched with anger

Foreheads wrinkling with disappointment

For they could rob me of all glory

But couldn’t take away the music in my soul

And so they’ll hang me at dawn

Still a bird shall perch on the gallows when am gone

And continue my song.

 

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