Official Video for “Ward No. 9” by Pablo Dylan.
Listen to Pablo Dylan’s new EP “Fortitude”: pablodylan.lnk.to/Fortitude
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I know a town in the highlands, all the violent, and alive go to die. Where they sent the manic, all through the panic, fettered they lie. There delirium is sleeping, with proud persecution’s rage,
They’ll knock your face to the pavement, and sell your body in a cage. My body strapped in a vest, all through the west, I was at war,
I thought i’d met my end, wouldn’t leave again, first day in the ward, An inmate was praying to Apollo, the guards beat him in blood,
They wrapped a noose ‘round his neck, slipped his feet from the rug. I’ve read of Chillon and Andersonville’s dark prison’s in rhyme. Hard times a-gonna come, bullet in the gun, Ward No. 9.
Deep inside my sentence, doctor came to visit, with question’s of the ward,
I said there’s rats up in the kitchen, it smells of purgatory, and looks like a morgue, If the ward is the highway, to oppression lane it steers,
Besides more moral than you, is every patient here.
If not you then me, if not me then someone else, he told me in a trance, The diﬀerence between where you sit and me, lie solely in chance.
I told him far oﬀ in the future, I’d be willing to predict,
There’s a new dawn for America where prisons and madhouses don’t exist, But the dawn won’t be a-blowing through the breeze in the pines, Hard times a-gonna come, bullet in the gun, Ward. No 9.
The doctor was divorced, and hit with the force, of falsehood’s fright, Rumors were fertile, in high circles, they whispered in the night, Questioning his sanity, in opinions so bold
They said the maddening can turn violent, in revolution’s of the soul. Steady breeze through the pines, all but consigned, to the grips of fate, Tried to turn back time, returned to ward nine, he was met at the gates He appeared before the court board, the arguments were slim.
They tied up his hands, brought him to the ward and booked him right in.
Now he’s stuck in the tumor, he swore was benign, Another cog in the system, named Ward. No 9.
I turned to see, I thought it was a dream, when he looked me in the eye, And entered his cell, where the Hellenist dwelt and recently died.
He screamed this hospital’s tyrannical, where freedom has fell, Yes but for years you were the warden and tyranny you upheld. Finally for one second, he understood and was filled with grief, Of the misery he inflicted on the populace and me.
He had a heart attack and died, that night at forty-four. He weeped loud into the evening, like a twelve-gage roar.
I was let out for the funeral, but only two people were in line, For the once doctor — once patient, Of Ward No. 9.
Directed by Jonas Berry
Producers: Jeremy Truong, Lottie Abrahams
Production Company: rubbertape
Director of Photography: Ace Buckley
Assistant Director: Ethan Nelson
1st AC: India Lausterer
2nd AC: Autumn Palen
Steadicam Op: Joseph Hartzler
Wardrobe Stylist: Brittny Moore
On Set Wardrobe: Wyatt Goodwin
Production Assistants: Caleb Sherrill, Mckay Steigerwald
Colourist: Andrew Ceen
Special Thanks: Evan Bauer & The Mill, Hot Bricks, Mae Mae Dylan, The Camera Division
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