Baby Grace is the victim; she was fourteen years of age.
And the wheels are turning, turning, for the finger points at me.
But I have not been to Oxford Town.
No I have not been to Oxford Town.
Toll the bell; pay the private eye. All’s well.
Twentieth Century dies.
And the prison priests are decent. My attorney seems sincere.
I fear my days are numbered.
Lord, get me out of here.
This is your shadow on my wall. This is my flesh and blood. This is what I could’ve been.
And the wheels are turning and turning as this Twentieth Century dies.
If I had not ripped the fabric
If time had not stood still
If I had not met Ramona
If I’d only paid my bill
This is my bunk with two sheets. This is my food, though foul. This is what I could have been?
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