To Stanley Stein or Swampland Barless Prison Blues

You have me in a cave as to save from the grave

YOU from my infection,

Because of a pale blemish that’s diminished the finish

Of my complexion.

I don’t know why this land to a man wants to ban

Me, a tainted fixation.

And don’t call me that word anymore, you’ve

Given me swampland barless prison blues.

You won’t allow me a wife or a life in the strife

Of my growing pockery.

And you put me down in the ground away from town

Under guard, lock and key,

Then you turn tail and run and you shun me, and son,

YOU call this democracy?

And don’t call me that word any more, you’ve

Given me swampland barless prison blues.

And your preachers preach the gospel

And they turn the people rather hostile

Then they collect for the hospital.

YOU call that Christianity?

And every gift that you give me

Is sterilized just to rib me

While you say you want to live. Gee!

YOU do that unanimously.

 

Then YOU wash your hands off

After waving me to please stand off.

After you’ve burned all the land off

YOU leave me anonymously.

While YOU go back home with your own all alone

Whispering where you’ve been,

Then YOU gasp at the rot at this spot and allow how

We aren’t owning much skin.

After which you sit back and get slack with a snack and

Go back asleep again.

And don’t call me that word any more, you’ve

Given me swampland barless prison blues.

Photograph of Stanley Stein from the International Leprosy Association