A prisoners ode

[jaydah]

I cannot take my walks abroad,
I'm under lock and key,
And much the public I applaud
For all their care of me.

The lowest pauper in the street
Half-naked I behold,
While I am clad from head to feet
And covered from the cold.

Thousands there are who scarce can tell
Where they may lay their head,
But I've a warm and well-aired cell,
A bath, good books, and bed.

While they are fed on Workhouse fare
And grudged their scanty food,
Three times a day my meals I get,
Sufficient, wholesome, good.

Then to the British public "health",
Who all our care relieves;
And while they treat us as they do
They'll never want for thieves.