Jailbird Observations

                                What the end verdict was,  still remains within technical boundaries. The financial creed. The urban slate. Official cremated ashes, scattered along desolate highways of molestation. Judicial, it is the stern honorable man that casts the first stone,  in narrow vacant cemeteries. The undertaker, the pedophile, the criminal, and the deceitful immigrant. We sprinkle long forgotten legal documents,  along winding trivial walkways of concrete thresholds. Parole and Probation, insects and infestation. See where this road takes you,  naive, gritty, adolescent pilgrim. How many years in this dissecting county will do.
                                The tall educated lawyer assembles himself upon a symmetrical playing field. The defendant who stuffs his inner awareness, possessing a gory gut feeling, the parasite that resides in one's empty stomach, has nothing to feed on, save the inner lining of his raw intestines. The cold morning sun, rising out of the east, of the inmate's cell window. The populated day room, and afternoon paralegal commercials, we're all innocent within the unworthy realm, of the justifiably accused.
                                Help me oh unhealthy family, I've fallen victim to the long dick of the law once again. I got the D.U.I. blues, and none of my old shoes fit me anymore. Don't listen to a word my slutty sister says, she's a filthy whore. She's got the daycare blues, got one too many rug rats urinating up and down her torn sleeves. While I sit in jail rotting one miserable day after another. Around here it is the common default of pinochle and spades. There are no dark horses that run the gammon, everything is placed in it's own deserving hole, we just don't like it. The primitive natives of unattractive despair, around here we dispose of our shower shoes the incorrect way. I took a wrong turn on the Jersey turnpike, and found myself hungry and restless, put my endurance to the test in the gravel carpeted courtyard. Make a phone call when the boredom hits you. Hard is the illiterate terminology we speak. Love is a weapon, as it always was, only now it's up the ass.