[LUCILLE]

You don't know this man

You don't know a thing

You come here with these horrifyin' stories

These contemptible conceits

And you say you understand

How a man's heart beats

And you don't know a thing

You don't know this man

You don't even try

When a man writes his mother every Sunday

Pays his bills before they're due

Works so hard to feed his family—

There's your murderer for you—

And you stand here spittin' words

That you know aren't true...

Then you don't know this man

I don't think you could

You don't have the right to know

A man that wise and good—

He is a decent man!

He is an honest man!

And you don't know

And you never will

Not from me, not from anyone who knows him—

Not a morsel, not a crumb, not a clue

I have nothing more to say to you