When the warden comes
Short legs on him waddling toward your cell
Torch and nightstick braced in hands
To touch the bars as if the gates to hell
The corridor echoes and a dozen damned men sigh
For the rest of their foreseeable lives
Hope a torn doll
hands braced on bars that once wielded knives
The grin starts growing as short legs makes his rounds
The taunt, the voice that doesn't surpass a burp
His nightstick clicks on bars as he ascends the hall
as he would a suburb in hell
The grin appears front of the cell
and everything is locked
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