Shadows stretch across the prison yard, 
the sun now just another convict behind the fences. 
A siren erupts, 
singing a statutory coda to our leisure, 
its earsplitting assonance ruining the poetry of the moment. 
We cons, our grazing like starving cattle 
on the sweet and simple grasses 
of human contact interrupted, 
low and moan as we file into our pens for the night 
to chew on the cud of all we heard, 
never comprehending that its flavor 
denotes a measure of character, 
one which depends more on what we 
reckless and restive men think of ourselves 
rather than what we are: 
beasts of burden unto ourselves.