If you were good and they thought You’d be safe to walk along to the drugs Hatch and pick up your own batch of mind Snatchers, then that was ok, because It meant they trusted you (fools) and you Could wander along the corridors and gaze
At others who were on their own way to Hell And back and sometimes not back at all, But in some perpetual purgatory where They were poked and tormented and maybe, If lucky, purged and delivered sane (What that meant no one said
Or maybe knew) but if they thought You bad and unsafe, you’d not be Allowed out of the locked ward, But have to sit or wander around And around the ward or adjoining Rooms pulling faces at yourself in
Mirrors or windows, or arguing with Others, nurses, or the quacks with Their dark eyes and foreign accents, Until the day’s light crept off, And the night and lights out call, And strange bedfellows came in
With the mutters and cries along The watchtower where the night Staff peered, sighed and smoked And cursed and drugged you And others (not themselves), And too often joked amongst
Themselves like hyenas picking Over some corpse; except these Were alive, if living is what it was They did, behind the tall walls And high windows, with the endless Hum of human voices, of the asylum.