Down On The Penal Farm

Their orange uniforms soak in
the Mississippi August sun,
as tired inmates can now begin
to see themselves near being done.

The penal farm raises crops to eat.
Now there are only a few rows
more to weed before work’s complete.
“Y’all get to working with those hoes,”

the shotgun-toting guards declare.
“Yessir, Bossman.” Hoes cut the air.
The inmates sing, “We hoe; we hoe.
Ain’t comin’ back no mo’, no mo’.”

From toil and sun, sweat wets the soil,
as all inmates silently swear
never more shall addiction spoil
their life, leading to such despair.

These inmates are all in this jail
for alcohol or drug abuse.
Society hopes to prevail…
but jailhouse promises are a ruse.

Hard work and confinement have now
sobered them all. Each is somehow
sure he’ll never again see jail.
‘Tho they so avow, most shall fail.


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