My father is in prison and he told my brother to write a song about the wind and to put a tune to it. My brother can't write a good song or poem so I did.
Wind blow; blow this prison right on down,
Blow the bricks aside and blow my ass out of town,
Blow me oh blow me so far away,
To my friends and family where I can stay.
Chorus
Blow me back to my old home place,
But when you do don't leave a trace,
I miss my friends and family there,
And all the memories they have to share.
Chorus
And for the cops that read letters the mail man totes,
Blow a big fucking dick right down their throats,
If they have anything to say to me,
They can call me any day after three.
Chorus
Let a hurricane come and go,
Just don't let the winds be slow,
Blow these bars that lock me down,
Blow them all over this screwed up town.
Chorus
Oh let it rain and let it pour,
Come on wind blow some more,
Blow a storm right over this jail,
And blow the guards straight to hell.
Chorus
Blow these cold iron shackles of my feet,
Blow these sons-a-bitches out in the street,
Blow these orange clothes off of me,
So that I will know that I am really free.
Chorus 2X
Poetry by Justin
Read 562 times
Written on 2006-02-03 at 22:41
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
Blow The Winds On Me
Chorus: Mother Nature blow the winds on me, I'm so miserable in here don't you see?Wind blow; blow this prison right on down,
Blow the bricks aside and blow my ass out of town,
Blow me oh blow me so far away,
To my friends and family where I can stay.
Chorus
Blow me back to my old home place,
But when you do don't leave a trace,
I miss my friends and family there,
And all the memories they have to share.
Chorus
And for the cops that read letters the mail man totes,
Blow a big fucking dick right down their throats,
If they have anything to say to me,
They can call me any day after three.
Chorus
Let a hurricane come and go,
Just don't let the winds be slow,
Blow these bars that lock me down,
Blow them all over this screwed up town.
Chorus
Oh let it rain and let it pour,
Come on wind blow some more,
Blow a storm right over this jail,
And blow the guards straight to hell.
Chorus
Blow these cold iron shackles of my feet,
Blow these sons-a-bitches out in the street,
Blow these orange clothes off of me,
So that I will know that I am really free.
Chorus 2X
Poetry by Justin
Read 562 times
Written on 2006-02-03 at 22:41
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
liz munro |
|
Celtic boy |
