HMP Slade

The transit stops on a Northern moor
A frown in a peaked-cap slams the door

‘Scrote’,  ‘Screw’, ‘Snout’ and ‘Stretch’
He’ll show you the ropes, will our Fletch

Horseblanket uniforms, soupy grey
Crossing off sentences, day upon day.

In the upper bunk a vested sage waits
“Just do your time son, don’t grass up your mates”

At the slit in the door a twitching eye
“Do you like our abode, dear Mr McKay?”

“Pinched your toothpaste? I never would…
…your biscuits, though, they tasted good.”

“Job in the library? Keep your ‘ands clean?
I read a book once…it was green”.

“Two years of stur, then just go straight
Life restarts when you get through that gate.”

“It’s five years for me at her Majesty’s pleasure…
Then I’ll dig up that carpark, abscond with me treasure.”

(With apologies to Clement and LeFrenais)