We must sign every time we come out or go in,
And all our small faults are writ down as a sin.
In a manner to gall him, each is put in a column
Arranged to exhibit him naked and solemn.
Some day soon we expect to all carry passes,
And each Monday morn, at sound of a horn,
We’ll line up for a dose of sulphuretted molasses,
And get a badge of red tape
To show any old ape
Our insides are in shape!