Sang the Turnkey

Put the shackles on those ankles
making sure the tightness rankles.
Play heavy metal at him loud.
Mask his eyes and if he cries,
     that will cut him down to size.
     He’ll soon be still, and pretty cowed.

If he choked himself to death
we could take an easy breath.
Eenie meanie minie mo
if he hollers let him go,
     the court would say we told you to;
     be kind now, he’ll get used to you.

Paper miter on the head,
wire fastened to each hand
—what a silly way to stand!—
when he slumps he’s still not dead:
     he plans to blow us all sky-high.
     We have to find out how and why,

so put a collar round the neck,
attach a leash and find a rafter.
Let the gang all split with laughter
seeing him shake, a total wreck
     up above and down below.
     Hidden midden, hie-di-ho.