My woman yells at me thought the prison bars, asking when Iím coming home, and if not soon, she wonít be there.
Sheís always harping on me when I canít
do anything about a situation.
My fists are so tight around the bars she can see what Iím thinking and for the first time shuts her mouth, waits a minute, then more calmly says, ďI just gotta know.Ē
I see the fear in her eyes, as if she is picturing me with my hands around her throat instead of the bars.
I tell her Iíll be out when ever the sheriff makes up his mind to set me free.
The grim lawman holds a grudge against me because even dead drunk I whipped him, and in front of his deputies no less.
She shouts that ainít good enough since sheís got kids to feed and I ainít helping feed them by my lying around in jail
I tell her to get and wait for me, and if she donít wait Iíll know where to find her.
That makes her blush. She tells me she ainít taking up with Robert no more, something we both know is a lie, since she always preferred him to me, taking to my bend only when I showed I could provide for her better than he could, providing I stayed sober enough to actually do it.
She tells me that if Iím throwing her away like this she might as well go to Robertís bed.
ďHe might not provide as much as you can,Ē she says, ďBut he donít spend as much time in jail as you do neither.Ē
ďYou got off to him and Iíll kill you both when I get out,Ē I say, though we both know Iíve said as much before and never done it.
Itís all talk.
Just like the sheriff is talk in telling me I got to give him sixty dollars or serve sixty days in jail.
Even if I had sixty dollars, I wouldnít give it to him, and would rather see my woman in another manís arms than let that tin badge rob me.
So here I am, three square meals for sixty days, planning to kill somebody when I get out, if not her or Robert than the sheriff or one of his deputies.
Sometimes a manís gotta do what I manís gotta do, just to prove he ainít just full of talk. even if folks go and hang him for it.