The Prisoner.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
The Prisoner.

Submitted: February 02, 2007

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Submitted: February 02, 2007

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The Prisoner.

I’m a prisoner, and alone in my cell.

It’s dark and dank and smells like hell.

This cell is square and very small.

And I’ve been here since the fall.

 

Up high, a small window that I can’t reach.

But at night, I hear the ocean hit the beach.

There’s over one thousand men in this place.

All different shapes and sizes and of race.

 

We’re let out at breakfast time.

Made to stand in a straight line.

Our trays extended, the food is taken.

If were lucky it’s egg and bacon.

 

Doing nothing, and all day to do it.

Sends one into a raving fit.

For time is always on our minds.

It’s worse than the chain that binds.

 

So the night is closing fast.

Who knows if it’s my last.

My appeal will soon be over.

Maybe, I’ll be pushing up clover.

 

copyright John Matthews.

( 18/01/2007 )


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