In A Dungeon Poem by Marilyn Shepperson

This prison that he knows so well
Is just twelve paces by six
The bed is a hard plank, covered with straw
With no pillow to cushion his head
There's some straw on the floor
That's not been changed in all the time, he's been here
He has had no company to speak of
Except the turnkey, mice and rats
And one scrawny sparrow, that begs for scraps
Not that there's any to spare
For there's no glass in the window, only bars
The wind and the rain have access too
He does get fed, if you can call it food
And never enough, of course
Water in plenty, not fit for drinking
Why should they waste their resources
A bucket stands in one corner, he's used to the smell
But glad that the wind drives the worst of it away
For on the rare occasion they empty it
They spill some to remind him, he's in an earthly hell
Before the time comes, he enters the other one
He has given all he had to give
Sold it all for an extra ration of bread
Which he didn't get and when questioned
The turnkey just laughed in a derisory fashion
Now he has only his life left, for what that is worth
And when they come for him at the dawning
Of tomorrow...........Need I say more
Tonight he won't sleep, but on the morrow
He'll sleep in peace for evermore