We are underground like onions
Bound not to air our opinions
Always dead beat yet still pressurized to toil
Since we have no backbone
Our courage to argue is gone
Our skeletons queue up
Their knuckles and lips trembling
As we hope for the invigorating stuff
The sole aliment of the day
Though they dole it out as Holy Communion
Still we go without bellyaching
Higgledy-piggledy, on the bare flow we lay
As we play back the eventful day
Then a slumber captures us
Disregarding bedding’s absence
Yet we feel no difference
Only winter vituperates our bodies
Intensively folded is everyone’s trunk
As we snore boisterously as if drunk
While our blood is being milked
Lice preys upon us
Nevertheless, life goes on
For we are behind the bars
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Peace,
Dayvid
Ron