The Island By the Sea
The following lines were written by a soldier of the United States army while under restriction and confinement as a general prisoner at Alcatraz Island, California. There has been a dread about this military citadel which is only equalled in the regular army by the Philippine prison of Bilibid. Both are looked on as dark hell-hole dungeons for the regular soldier.
By An Alcatraz Prisoner
Only a short ride from ’Frisco,
On a rock resting out in the sea;
A dungeon for “soldier convicts—”
The home of the U. S. D. B.
There we lay on our bed of hard metal,
And think of our life among men,
Ever wishing our life was far distant,
Or could be lived over again.
The death-colored chambers of madness,
Where all rights are evermore gone;
Oh, is there no chance for freedom,
Will we never again see the dawn?
To be beaten and thrown in a dungeon,
Where the eyes of mankind are blind;
To be left for dead in this hell-hole of dread,
Eternally losing your mind.
So, hear the cries from the “big-house,”
From the souls who go down in the strife,
Where souls are evermore striving
And thrown by the wayside of life.
Oh, list to the cry from the inmates;
Assist in this hour that is blue,
For the ones who are good and the ones who are bad
Are as good or as bad as you.
* * *
I was born in the spring, I died in the fall,
But I won’t tell St. Peter, I lived in St. Paul.
* * *