I love the sun and the gentle breeze, and the brook that winds through the pleasant vale; and I love the birds, and I love the trees, and I'm always glad when I'm out of jail. We are governed now by so many laws that liberty's dead, and we've heard its knell, and the wise man carries a set of saws, to cut his way from a prison cell. The grocer wails in a dungeon deep, for he sold an egg that was out of date; the baker's fetters won't let him sleep, a loaf of his bread was under weight. The butcher beats at his prison door, and fills the air with his doleful moan; they'll cut off his head when the night is o'er, for he sold a steak that was mostly bone. The milkman's there in the prison yard, and the jailers flog him and make him jump; it seems to me that his fate is hard, though he did draw milk from the old home pump. A sickly weed, that was lank and thin, embellished my lot, at the edge of town, and the peelers nabbed me and ran me in, because I neglected to cut it down. I dropped a can as I crossed the park, and that is a crime that's against the law; so they shut me up in a dungeon dark, with its rusty chains and its moldy straw. I love the brook and the summer breeze, and I'm rather mashed on the howling gale; and I'm fond of robins and bumblebees, and I'm always glad when I'm out of jail.