As rain sheets the tiled homes of those housed in,
Time punctures essence in kind for broken men,
Stable types ever walking the barred walls alone,
Frightened eyes shake as if to hide from the pen.
Robes and hammers rule the day at sentence start,
Fallen angels stand tall as war imprisoned all,
Not legal jousts or rotten speeches pouring forth,
Little minds, little times and little words will fall.
Scratch's take on meanings of calendars forth,
One month, two year, each decade decay in nests,
No humour can ever puncuate this hellish playground,
The state after all foots with money no kinds rests.
Slack hands make new wifes out of slender men,
Fear leaves one hollow and you make space for us,
Practice heaves a heavy burden for warden now home,
A crested ***** awaits those without shield or fuss.
A look at those imprisoned!
