Arrest him by his words. Not his thoughts.
Put him in the pen. Make his vacation tying nots.
If he tries to break out cuff him to double bunk.
Then plunk down the boring inside his junk.
Render the lid of his toilet mirror and sink.
And when he flushes crackers in turbulence drink.
Now give him a mirror to flash cells down the line
to tell them to shout this barred nursery rhyme:
“We’re in here forever. Won’t you be my pride?
Till I’m tired. Then get lost, disobey and hide.”
If I only had a chill I’d nurse it to the grave.
To bow to authority, sniffle and behave.”
Now roll over, sleep, and don’t dare snore.
Dream of confiding to the nearest horror.
Then buck all fluff and puff it to the fare.
Or pluck grainy muck out of the badass bare.