I watch lost
souls through a machine,
Their faces appear
as they drown in despair,
Whilst I’m
safely watching my screen
I’m just
like the gentry ages ago,
Who would
gape at the Bedlam boys restrained,
And be
pleasantly distracted,
By lunatic
paupers secured and enchained.
Some lost souls are bewildered and
dumbfounded;
Some have strange hopes and strange beliefs;
Some naively believe that justice will prevail
That a rightful conclusion will end their ordeal.
But they are all only fish trawled up in a net,
Tipped out gaping onto a boat’s deck.
A few will be thrown back free to the sea,
Most gutted, locked in boxes and left to freeze.
Police, lawyers clerks and judges
Work the fishing machine,
It’s a job or vocation that must be enacted,
Dooms must be deemed as prescribed and contracted,
So, I can eat my tinned tuna and be entertained
By the evil, the innocent, the unlucky and the insane.
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