Below Tower Hill where the hangman stands still
and the condemned man will plead for a break,
there's a crow on the gallows
that laughs at these sparrows
and waits for the sun going down.

In the orchard of dreams where
apple bulb beams light up like a
pinboard on speed
there's a need for the spectacle of poor men in manacles
and for their suffering to be long and drawn out.

The Madder Family,
whose cinchona supplies me
with quinine,
which I drink like good wine in
a bad dream and it stops all the sweats and
the long drawn out screams, so the apple bulb
beams have no use for me.

In a land fit for doctors and therapy
I drown, twice weekly on a couch
for a large fee.