Walls of Red Wing

Oh, the age of the inmates
I remember quite freely:
No younger than twelve,
No older ‘n seventeen.
Thrown in like bandits
And cast off like criminals,
Inside the walls,
On the grounds of Red Wing.

From the dirty old mess hall
You march to the brick wall,
Too weary to talk
And too tired to sing.
Oh, it’s all afternoon
You remember your home town,
Inside the walls,
The walls of Red Wing.

The night aimed shadows
Through the crossbar windows,
And the wind punched hard
To make the wall-siding sing.
It’s many a night
I pretended to be a-sleepin’,
Inside the walls,
The walls of Red Wing.

Oh, some of us’ll end up
In St. Cloud Prison,
And some of us’ll wind up
To be lawyers and things,
And some of us’ll stand up
To meet you on your crossroads,
From inside the walls,
The walls of Red Wing.

Bob Dylan, 1963

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