Jailor Poem by John Ode

There are no parades along the boulevard,
No trumpets, tears, or honour guard.
No public outrage when a Bull is lost,
“It’s a prison guard...they knew the cost.”
I will not stand to hear their names,
Misspoken, sullied, and shamed.
Men whose days are filled with angst,
With blood, with urine, with feces, and prison shanks.
An unnatural place for unnatural men,
Who, given the chance would do it again.
So hold your righteous tongue before you speak
And sit in silent wonder of the men you call bleak