Who does not dream of prison-breaks? A pal with a motorcycle or a hidden airplane on the moor? To heal the hard scars And too many churlish thoughts from Brute planet-living where The food is poor. Not enough drink. Corners smell of sweat and The entertainment's lousy and All the fun is happening Somewhere else. It stinks.
Who, if only they had a map, Would not bust out and Take your chance On the outside? But you're dreaming, pal. The place is too well organized, see. You've been trained into it, see. Just go back to sleep, would ya? Nobody's going anywhere, no Breakouts; you'll be right here tomorrow.