On his head
  was tattooed
           a number,

While through
        his mind flew
                destruction..

Over his shoulder blew Kong,
    and upon Kong's war plate of torture,
    and a vice gripped and girdled waist,
with spikes tipped to rip any mans flesh.

A chain mail vest webbed with deceit,
   and acute, dispirited despair
     lay sheathed beside his broad hips.

You see him and terror grips,
               when through his eye
                  your eyes are reflected.

                    What is your number.

Guess all
      you want,
           it can't be read
                back to front
                   in the mirror.

It can't be
scrubbed clean
with the finest of lye.

Your number is your number
           and when it's up, it's up.


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