That time when I was 22, invincible,
I went to jail for something I didn’t do.
Bravo T Shirt with airbourne ranger
skull ripped where dog tags hung,
bared teeth jingling with each stomp
of combat boots, slick and ready to slam.
Where is my pen and paper I demanded,
I’m a writer God damn it, and they said,
no pens allowed, just sleep it off,
just a drunk “indian” on a summer’s night,
dancing, hot, punk streets of Columbus.