|THE OLD CONVICT
Look at me. I am Ishmael,
Ham’s heir, the spit and spawn of Cain The outcast with the twisted brain.
Lord of Cats Castle, fit for Hell.
I got no chance. The social odds
Were dead against me when they sent Me up The HilI because I went
For some forgotten prank to Dodds.
And so because they made me wince, And stretched me on the legal rack,
I took an oath I would hit back, And have been hitting ever since.
Maybe it is a foolish game
Judged by the record. Who likes jail? But then I’ve fought them tooth and nail And surely that’s no cause for shame.
Reform, you say? Reform indeed!
Let’s all reform. They must not quit The Golden Rule, and I from it WUI not stray once. That is our need.