by Nick Gisburne
It never seems to trouble him, the smell
Perhaps there is no room for it to fit
The rivers of disease in every cell
Too potent for the senses to permit
Experimental medicine, he says
Will justify the boundless money spent
A secret state ensures the public pays
But no one asks his victims for consent
No beast, however low, would care to live
In bodies damned, defiled, reduced to this
The only compensation he can give
A daily dose of undiluted bliss
Another serum sends their minds to space
Beyond the living torment of this place
