The bars are like iron before me
Blood has stained my floor from the past
My room is the grayness of gloom
And rare is there a happy flight.
To deal with land, sea, sky, and me
Not forgetting the intangible sites
Most of all, to intensive observance
The pick, shovel, and mind are my vise
To Slave for my grave
To dig at the light.
Through work and thought comes evolution
With this will come more light and thinner bars
The next should enjoy my cell much more than I.