The edict was gravely issued
To set out the approved way
To lay down correct behaviour
For each hour of each day.
In this age of conformity there
Can come a time when perhaps
With mistaken individuality
A citizen may very sadly lapse.
The facilities are there
Deep deep underground
For guided contemplation
Until the way back is found.
They take away his clock
For who needs the time
When he's just a unit on
A Penal production line
For seeing the clock
Could give a prisoner a false lift
Helping him chart the hours
To the end of each shift
This is a place without any hope
This is a place of physical grind
To tire out the body
And shut down the mind.
This is a place without hope,
Preview, perhaps of a coming hell
Just the production line and then
Solitary hours in a sparse cell.
A near silent place
With only the sound
Of bare cold feet
As they shuffle around
Turning the lever
That winds up the spring
That drives the clock
That makes the bell ring,
The only indication of
The passing of time
As each shift is ended
By the bell's strident chime.
There is no period of sentence
When a prisoner enters
The long dark tunnels of
These rehabilitation centres,
Just an assessment procedure
By which release can be bought
Through controlled Labour to produce
Disciplined and compliant thought.
A continuing continuous process
To gauge the changing attitude
Until with that perceived achieved time p
Of Correct sense of loyalty and gratitude
A unit is brought again to the surface
Welcomed newly back into the flock
With joyous celebration and feasting
And the award of their own special clock.
