Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang,
Relentless, fruitless, desperate, protest or plea?
Wonder how many blows you have taken;
to craft that shellac suit around your spirit.
A secret life story even you will not now know;
People have seen you as the gangster not the beaten child.
Too many scars by your hands on bodies and souls;
The patience of saints all but exhausted.
Beating at the cell door and baiting of the staff;
This is sport, distraction from thoughts of any tomorrow.
This isn’t personal, well not normally, sorry Guv;
But you get to touch another, to feel, even if in pain.
At the darkest hour there might be a cut or perhaps a knot;
A rumble of boots, then lights, camera and action.
Strangers fighting for life, squelching in your blood;
When you wake it is not just another day, it is opportunity.
You can bang the door but the silence would be noticed more.