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,