Iíd rather be an inmate in this lunatic asylum
Than work here as a member of the staff.
Who wants to be a supervisor in a house of bedlam?
Thatís not a very moving epitaph.
Iíd rather be a criminal and get up in the morning,
Have breakfast, then go back to bed again,
Than be a screw and work till nine at night, the whole day yawning
Because I had to rise at 5am.
Itís true that people sometimes call you sir, and guvíner often,
But thatís no consolation for the fact
That when you turn around youíre spoken of as something rotten,
Smiles to your face, and daggers in your back.
Nor is it any comfort making all that lovely money
When six days in a week to work you go
And worry all the time about whoís sleeping with your honey,
And having eyes like piss holes in the snow.
Yes, thereís many things convince you your years are being wasted,
Besides the man whoís knocking off your wife,
Because the cons you lock up have a sense of freedom tasted,
And will again, but youíll be here for life.
(The above was actually dedicated to a Highpoint warder with the unlikely name of David Frost).
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