ISHAM:
No, I ne'er busted jail.
But I might have done it if I figured how,
For I lay in jail a-feared because they'd hang me,
Ashamed of being scared, and knowing, too,
They ought to hang me, for I killed my Brother.
But old Thomas Terry-he guarded jail and me–
Old Tom, one night he came and said real soft,
"Was you to hit me now, and leave me lay,
You mought git off. You'll find a hoss all saddled
Down in the willow thicket. Hit's my hoss."
"Your horse-" I said. And him: "The hell whose hoss!
Hit's hoss or rope, and son, you better ride.
And as fer hoss, they'll give me one of yore'n
From Rocky Hill, because you done stole mine."
"You mean-" I said, "- you mean you'll let me go?"
And him: "Why, son, lak ever-body knows,
You warn't the one what brung the meanness on."
But I near yelled: "I killed my Bubber!" But I couldn't
Yell out, so said I'd go. He laughed, and said:
"I seen 'em hang, you wouldn't lak hit, son."
And said: "I'm gittin old, don't hit me hard."
I didn't hit him hard. Just like he said.
R.P.W.: And rode away and waited for the end.
ISHAM: I rode away, and threw my name away.
I wasn't Isham what had killed his Brother.
I wasn't nothing, not nobody now,
Like something wind will blow, or blow right through,
Like thistle-fuzz or a scare-crow on a stick.
I said: "I'm nothing, and nothing ever happened."
I said: "I'll ride, and never have no name."
And rode.
And rode, but knew the one durn thing
A man can't do is throw himself away.
He just can't squeeze it up inside his hand
And throwaway
his
name and days and time
And all the things inside his head, and go.
So everything was there.
I
rode with
me,
But kept on saying how I wasn't me,
