String me through prison bars and cell, carefully done with a message to tell.

I’m cold hard metal, but I’m known for my song, give me one little strike and I’ll ring right along.

I whistle without a mouth, I cross towns without walking. I need the iron path to exist. My path is?

I’m supposed to protect your eye, but sometimes I’m the reason you tear up. Talk about failing at my job.

Snitches drop me on their pals; dealers bag me up; Roosevelt rides on my face.