A Familiar Hell

Shackled once you were,

iron bound and bound to stay that way

looking up from the gutter, the bleak prison,

home.

Lawyers walk the streets, thieves walk the streets,

there's nothing on the streets

Are you not better off in a hell-hole you're used to?

It's your choice, you can taste clean air if you wish,

but clean air ends up dirty in the end.

Go, be free, send me a postcard from some mountain top

but don't grin too soon.

I got your letters and I was right, but there's no going back for you now,

freedom offers you nothing.