Grey everything
In the room at the bottom of the stairs
It's so demeaning
A yellow plastic tray
In which to die

It's a difficult task
A chain of random events
What is on your mind
In the brown uniform?
The bars cast shadows
On your tousled hair
You're almost twenty-one
You're not insensitive

And you look so drawn
You need the grave
More than your mother
So when they ask if you're ready
You just think about it

You just think about Mary
How you'll never drink again
Because they're taking you to die
In half an hour

When it is time to go
Never say you are ready
Let them drink iced tea
While they await you

And if the time is right
They will bring you out
And they shamble with you to the room
Without dignity or poise
For the last time

Articles 148 and 44
Don't mean a thing
Until the sentence
Is carried out

I abhor it

The last cigarette
Never lasts long enough
And the sentence
Is carried out
Amidst grey everything