Some men wish evil and accomplish it But most men, when they work in that machine, Just let it happen somewhere in the wheels. The fault is no decisive, villainous knife But the dull saw that is the routine mind.

Why, if a man lay dying on their desk They’d do their best to help him, friend or foe, But this is merely a respectfully Submitted paper, properly endorsed To be sent on and on, and gather blood.

Stare at the smoke again for a moment’s space And see another live man in another prison.

A colored trooper named Woodson was on guard In the prison at Newport News, one night around nine. There was a gallery there, where the privy was, But prisoners weren’t allowed in it after dark.

The colored soldier talked with the prisoners At first, in a casual, more or less friendly way; They tried to sell him breastpins and rings they had And bothered him by wanting to go to the privy.