They say they've seen a silhouette figure
crying tears of ink by the river
crouched down at the lip like a tiger
as the storied fog rolls by ...
They've seen him at the blacking house
where kids go in , some don't come out
He scribbles madly
with a shaky hand ..
still speckled from
the tar pot stains
that bleach won't wash away
and believe him
he has tried to every day.
He paces outside the debtor's prison
where his father went
one sad Thanksgiving
He buries his head
that can't stop thinking
about how to make a change
He has to write it down
or he'll go insane.
He sits outside the orphanage
watching ornate carriages
carry the real criminals
to Sunday supper feasts.
He's got to make them feel ..
the people have to see
injustices revealed.
He's got to hope they read
the storied fog.
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