No, I'M Spartacus!

If I could just remove this identity
Then I could be truly free
No expectations or repercussions
Just honest kudos or condemnations

In the old noir novels
It's the fingerprints that always give you away
With the private dick tricking you into drinking a brandy
Before bidding goodnight
To grab your glass with his handkerchief
So that Hoover's experts can suss out who you really are
With those unique to a fault
Mosaic of twisty drunken sworls
That definitely have to go

I walked on down to the railroad tracks
The ones at the end of the road by the swamp
And waited patiently for the evening train
Catching it unawares
Reaching out
Letting my fingertips ride along the bumpy side

Before I knew it
That Amtrak was just a receding red flashing light
A de crescendo clickety clack steel rail attack
A far off crossing horn dopplering away in the night
Leaving me with shaking knees
Chuck Taylors swaying on shifting grade stones
Fingers on fire it seemed
Inspiring a fear of looking
But I did anyways

Mostly
It looked as if I'd tried to grab onto
A fleeing cheese grater
That had tried to run from the scene
Fighting back with all of its means
The actuality of what the sixty mile per hour
Corrugated steel coach sides had done
Approximating what that hypothetical
Kitchen implement on the run
Was capable of

Even a man as mad as myself
Could see how even a child would
Be able to scotch tape paste these fingertips
So that any Barney Fife could ink-stamp-identify
This hulking hunk of human that is me

There is no sense denying it
I am Spartacus