Forced to write poetry

24 Oct

Sitting in my smelly cell
A bedsit, Kingston-upon-Hell
Light through grimy windows staggers
A church tolls a doleful bell.

I look at my inquisitor
My jailer and my torturer
Whose blankly blinking face mocks me
And challenges to demur

My face it hides rebellion
But not, am I, a hellion
I must submit and take the hit
Before I can turn the telly on

Ne’er will I e’er see the glow
Of the moon glistening o’er fresh snow
Unless I break out of this fug
And clean the bloody window.


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