The morning dawned and before the judge to trial came Tomlinson,
He sentenced him to the gloomy “Pen,” and a year he got—just one,
And the judge’s voice resounding loud to him seemed like a knell
Or ever they took the man away to lock him in his cell.
Then Tomlinson looked up and down and sought for things to read:
“A yellow journal is my meat, yea, that is what I need,
And I will crawl upon my knees and ask the jailer man
If he will only bring to me a sheet of the hue of tan.”
But the jailer held his hands aloft and swore by heaven high
That no such evil thing should come that penitentiary nigh;