You ask what prison feels like;
Well basically, you see,
It's mostly just a bunch of rules
About where you should be,
And quite a lot of it's the same
As the things you do whilst "free".

It's about showing scraps of paper
If you want to travel far
(Much like passports), shown to men
Who don't know who you are.
(I know describing the next wing
As "far" may seem bizarre).

Then there's other scraps of paper,
Which decide what you should earn.
You get them by completing courses,
This encourages you to "learn",
And then you blow your weekly wages
On tobacco ("smokes" or "burn")

Which you can trade amongst the cellmates,
(Despite a watchful eye),
For illicit goods, or lend it out
And double your supply,
And all these things convinced me
You're just as free as I

It's just a case of space and time;
I can still pursue my art.
Whether or not you're caught for crime,
Freedom's only in your heart.
(And if you don't believe me read this rhyme
Again, back from the start.)