There's nothing as cold as the freeze in your soul
at the moment when you are arrested.
There's nothing as real as the iron and steel
on the handcuffs when you protested.
You raced through the night in the prison of fright
as you head for the quicksand of questions.
And children unborn will see you in scorn
If ever you make a confession.
And the click of the lock is a shiver of shock
As you wonder what are their objectives.
Up on your guard, for the voices are hard
That belong to the cops and detectives.
And it's hard to believe,
as they roll up their sleeves
That you're in for more than a session
And it couldn't be true,
and it's not really you
That they want to make a confession
You cannot conceal the confusion you feel
As they steadily work to outguess you
And some will pretend they are really your friend,
who rally around to your rescue.
With frightening force,
your mind is divorced to give them the guilty impression.
Every word that you hear is a weapon of
fear to win the war of confession.
The lights shoot a glare like bullets they stare
and burn at the base of conviction.
And you squint and you blink and you try not
to think of the cobwebs of contradictions.
And your clothes will be wet with rivers of
sweat that tells the tale of the tension.
And once in a while
the clock has to smile
As it counts the time of confession
The questions will rain
and pour on your brain
With the proper speed
they are driven
The circles they pace and the
sneers on their face
Tells you no quarter is given
You can salvage your mind
when the paper is
And the crime is
solved by oppression,
But win, lose, or draw,
it's the rule of the law
To always work for confession.
And the balance of scale
seems distant and pale
In the shadowy days of the trial,
And sometimes they die with
their name on a lie
When it's all too late for denial.
When agreement is full,
the switch must be pulled
And the chair leaves no
hope for correction
But the chances are large
he was guilty as charged
After all, he made a confession