I have always been a prisoner
— Shackles around my wrists and ankles —
But it is the leather on my throat that confines me,
Bites my voice so I cannot speak,
Restricts my lungs so I cannot breathe.
You can paint them gold, but I can still see the strings,
All these prettied up strings, all wrapped around me.
Oh what an idea, to be free:
To have no chains on me.