[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 think 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 ev'ry 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.