by Chris Bodenner

A reader sends "Christmas In Prison" by John Prine. Lyrics after the jump:

It was Christmas in prison


And the food was real good


We had turkey and pistols


Carved out of wood


And I dream of her always


Even when I don't dream


Her name's on my tongue


And her blood's in my stream.

Wait awhile eternity


Old mother nature's got nothing on me


Come to me


Run to me


Come to me, now


We're rolling


My sweetheart


We're flowing


By God!

She reminds me of a chess game


With someone I admire


Or a picnic in the rain


After a prairie fire


Her heart is as big


As this whole goddamn jail


And she's sweeter than saccharine


At a drug store sale.

The search light in the big yard


Swings round with the gun


And spotlights the snowflakes


Like the dust in the sun


It's Christmas in prison


There'll be music tonight


I'll probably get homesick


I love you. Goodnight.

We want to hear what you think about this article. Submit a letter to the editor or write to letters@theatlantic.com.