a sort of stockholm

he had spent all his life in the darkness

chained to the wall of a hole

they'd broken his sickening spirit

and nearly, but not quite, his soul

he knew there were others just like him

he'd heard them all scream in the night

they'd been there so long, and the binds were too strong

not worth what was left of their fight

pulled out at half four in the morning

so started his drudge of a day

smacked in the mouth, as a warning

no work, no food. (his 'pay')

he'd clean until even dirt sparkled

and hope it would be good enough

his hands were so raw; and he'd welcome the floor

if his hessian shirt weren't so rough

he dreaded the coming of weekends

he'd wish he had never been born

friday was 'anything goes' night

and his asshole would bleed until dawn

sometimes he'd try to remember

the life that he once might have led

his family and friends were just living loose ends

there were only those chains in his head

one day, he slept for far longer

than these bastards would cruelly allow

he woke up to the chiming of sirens

and the time to cry freedom was now

the police gently led him to safety

away from this torturous nest

past ma; stinking bad from a friday she'd had

and pa in his stringed sunday best

he had twenty five million questions

but he simply broke down and cried

when told of the seventeen others

how in the last hour; they had died

how, like him, they'd been taken

committed to their filth and clutch

he warmed to cop's talk, but he'd shiver and baulk

at what's known as the gentle touch

sometimes he'd see them in prison

to spit at their still smiling faces

and when he was done with destruction

he'd return to the blackest of places

he could find his way back through the darkness

push the doors of his displeasuredome

and here, he would weep, and eventually sleep

for they say you can never go home...