How dare you ask the Larks to sing,
ironic chant for my cold steel cell.
What kind of blessing does it bring.
to someone locked in early hell.

Why waste your paint on morning tide
while dealing out a future cold.
The black of night, might better hide
the iron bars you gild with gold.

Don't stir up yet the waltzing breeze
that bounces off the walls of stone
to shake awake the sleeping trees
and mock with tune instead of groan.

Oh God that dulls the crushing fear
for condemned men destined to hang
from gallows tall to try severe
the sentence parsed by gavel's bang.

If cells you build can truly cure
the proof that Gods can fail.
Pen up the bad so they're secure,
but don't put windows in a jail.

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