In his padded cell,
Dressed in rags
He drools and shouts,
He screams at nothing.
He scrawls things
On the walls
In his own defecate.
From a window above
Looking down on him
Are the men and women,
dressed in white rubber coats.
They look at the scrawlings,
They listen to the shouts,
They write them down in
Equally white binders.
They sell his words to the obscenely rich,
And they cry over their beauty.
They wonder who this mystery poet is,
where he writes these marvels,
what wonders he lives.
As they pull the lever that releases
His daily serving of yellow brown slop,
He runs for it and begins to eat, shoveling great mouthfuls in,
With shit encrusted hands, fingernails black.
Matted beard and hair to his waist.
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