It looked like muddy grounds where small dusty roses growed wild on the gable end of a wooden barn. As a spinster spinned her wheel of wool the size of a yarn. Where intermediate surfaces laid doorment as she hid away from hideous minds. While she lowered her guard in the back of a interview room in Scotland yard. The smell of tea and wee displaced the air they breathed holding all colour, creed and race without shame and with disgrace. There the prisoner waits knowing no policeman's your mate. Elbows in windows as belts and pistons drives there jam jars. Searching for another criminal to put safely behind bars as a prison guard looks up at the stars. Knowing this is ornate world as they lie on a gauntness sofa with blistering leather that craved a different stage trying to trick the judge. That they all have a different mental age while trying not to hold a grudge as they calm there own rage. This daunting life where they wear stripes fighting against right and wrong living under a deceitful con. While blades melts into brush displacing there medieval amour with surnames and number on signs knowing extra days squashing there fines. To get to the truth you will hear so many lies.