Within this abattoir we sat, sank,
dreamed, drank in what little sun we could.
Eight hours we had, eight hours a week,
when our weak, frail, tender bodies could sip,
would reach, and slip, on the ***** muddy mounds we made,
to raise ourselves above the common stage.

To see it lift its head each day,
that lone rose on the hill.
we look to where the breeze escapes,
there the rose its pedals drapes.
Through the bars our cell it scrapes,
its roots, the ground to till...

For years we sought we saw,
we reach, we grasp, we claw
The delicate rose at least to hold,
our hope for beauty in this hole.
The only beauty sitting bold,
in front of this mob of beasts.

At last he grasped and pulled it close,
(that fiend, we curse his name),
he tore it from its home, its post,
to have the beauty he killed the rose,
the one and only hope disposed,
and now no hope we claim.