Back you go, to the round cell a place the inmates label the living hell.

In amongst the madness, I dreamed a dream, that I was happy in the sun on some far away tropical island where I hugged my children with unbridled joy and love.

Now I sit like Buddha in a living hell, things aren’t well,you take a spell in the vinyl covered Paparua prison round room cell and you'll find it's no place for a human too dwell.

Protected by smash proof glass, the big brother camera rolls twenty-four-seven, viewed by twisted people far from heaven. The florescent tubes never switch off, minutes roll into days, time stands still, you feel ill, you wish for a quick lead pill. Your spirit is overwhelmed by unfairness, while the dark stench of hades saturates your shattered soul.

You’re fed through a slot, while wearing a padded jacket that always make you feel unbearably hot.

You ask for a Bible,a pen, some paper and try for a smoke, but it's a sick joke. Some bloke called a screw says; have you lost the plot, you got your lot!

Dignity is a farce as you sit on your unwashed arse.

You eat your food with your trembling hands, then you stir your luke warm tea with a finger, without any glimmer of human glee.

The old pooh and wee in the 20L used paint pail, reminds you this is definitely jail.

You walk around in circles praying for miracles.

Hauled in front of judge dread, where any sane father understandably fears to tread.

Two miss trials and you feel plucky, sadly it’s not third time lucky.

The cops got the knife in real firm,they like to watch you squirm, needless to say,the crown prosecution team are ever so keen.

You’re unlocked, take a straight line step, so easily forgotten and you're dizzy at first. No time for walk the line, manacled and transported to a freezing courthouse basement.

For a change it's a square cell , which makes you to freak, so you take a nervous leak.

For three painful days the jury glares, you don’t dare return the stare.

You constantly shake in the dock.

You decide not to give evidence, as your right, because you have full confidence in your learned barrister, who will respectfully submit your precarious plight and everything will finally be alright.

While the jury debates your fate, you pray for the hand from a caring mate.

It’s 5’Oclock on a gloomy Canterbury Friday Night and waiting as a falsely accused doesn’t seem bright,let alone bloody well right!

Guilty they say, suddenly my legs give way.

It’s sickening too watch the judiciary celebrate with callous delight, when the jury don’t get it right.

The nightmare unfolds, you hope the media leave out a story untold.

Back you go, to the round cell a place the inmates label the living hell.