This time its personal

Wee Henry walked from the hospital gates
And his face lit up with glee
The doctors and pshyciatrists there
Had worked their therapy

So Henry went back to his job
No longer to look at graffiti
They had taught him to ignore it all
They had fixed him up completely

So mop in hand, he'll wash the floors
And he'll look at poems no more
BUT WAIT, whats that in front of him?
Somethings written on the door

'You know you're really not cured yet'
The callous words did spell
'And the only thing that waits for you
Is an empty padded cell'

So Henry clutched his vice like chest
THE SHITHOUSE POET, he had won
He fell down to the piss stained floor
His cleaning days were done

On his headstone these words are carved
These majestic words of wonder
I messed with THE SHITHOUSE POET friends
And now i'm six foot under

Now the moral of this story is
When you need to spend a penny
Don't interfere with the poets words
Cause you may end up like Henry

Gerald J Tate