[VERSE 4 — "THE NORTHERN LIE"] [Weimar cabaret, brittle snare, muted brass] I ran North through swamps and brambles, through the fever and the freeze, Crossed the border into freedom—but freedom's got degrees. See, the North needs Southern oil to keep its cities lit, So they check your documentation, and they don't give a shit About your so-called liberation if you haven't got the card That says you're authorized to be here. No card? Then the guard Puts you on a list. A wagon. A return-to-sender stack. We sympathize, of course, but—and they ship you right back. [Patter, rapid-fire but clear] New York City, beacon of the free— If you've got the paperwork and you've got the pedigree And you've got connections and you've got the fee And you never, ever, ever disagree With the officer who stops you on the street at three A.M. demanding proof you're someone you should be— I pulled rickshaws for the liberals who said slavery's a crime While they drank Confederacy bourbon and they took their time Debating resolutions. I was right there. Pulling. Drenched. They could've looked me in the eye. They never did. They flinched. [Spoken, slow, over tremolo] I made it home to Maine. The door was open. Snow on the kitchen table. My mother in her chair. Frozen. Months gone. The stove cold. When the pipelines closed, when the oil stopped, When the winter came without relief, She sat there and waited for spring. Spring didn't come. I buried her behind the house. The ground was so hard I broke two shovels. I didn't pray. I didn't have the words. I just... covered her up. And left. [REFRAIN v3] Run and run and every road bends south. Every safe house has a price and every friend a mouth That talks eventually. And still you run. Because the act Of running is the only freedom left. The only fact You control. They'll catch you—sure they will. But you were moving when they caught you. You were moving still. [VERSE 5 — "THE PUNISHMENT"] [Industrial clang, surgical rhythm, cold] They built a stadium for punishment—a theater of law. Prime-time, every Thursday: Watch what happens when they're caught. The sentence for a runaway is fixed. No jury. No appeal. They strap you to a table. And they take what makes you real. Castration. Public. Slow enough to make good television. Replays. Commentary. Expert analysis with precision. In the holding cage I waited with the others. Watched the line Shuffle forward. Watched them wheel the men out—still alive, But emptied. Hollowed. Something missing past the spine. I thought: That's it. That's the end of trying to survive. Forty-seven. Forty-eight. My number's next. The click Of the restraints around my ankles. And then— A hand. Familiar. Quick. [ [VERSE 6 — "THE CHAIN GANG"] [Work-song groove, Arabic maqam braided into blues] Eight men. One chain. Three years in sun and clay. Seven Arabs, one American—they locked us wrist to wrist And left us in the cotton 'til we learned each other's way Of being. You can't hate a man whose sweat you've kissed Off your own arm. You can't stay strangers when you piss In the same ditch, sleep in the same pile, share the same dismissed And hopeless prayers. We became... something. Not a word for this. Ahmed taught me Arabic—the numbers, then the verbs. Yusuf taught me how to pray without the prayer being heard. Khalid never spoke but god, his silence was a balm. Samir cracked jokes in the worst moments—kept us calm. Hassan could sing the ache right out of you. Omar would weep And none of us said stop—we'd let him go until he'd sleep. And Farouk—the prince, the sheikh's son, stolen for a ransom That never came—he taught me: even wrecked, you can be handsome. Even here, you can build something worth the keeping. At night we'd curl together. Eight men, one chain, one heap Of tangled limbs. What happened in that tangle wasn't shame. It was shelter. It was us. And it didn't need a name.
