And the bitter bread they weigh in scales
Is full of chalk and lime.
After tea, during the summer months, we were allowed out into the yard again till it was dark, and at ten the key grated against us once more in our cell doors.
Each narrow cell in which we dwell
Is a foul and dark latrine,
And the fetid breath of living death
Chokes up each grated screen,
And all, but Lust, is turned to dust
In Humanity’s machine.