Mama said stay away from those men, but I still get letters from the state pen.
Mama said they’ll just do you harm, but I wear Satan on my arm.
And all the good people, they scream, falling apart by the seams.
Mama doesn’t know where it all went.
It wasn’t an angel they sent.
But I’m too broke to visit, so I’ll live it.
And here I sit, with my postcards from prison.

The beginning of a song I’m writing. 

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