by David Roderick

When you get out.

When you get out,
How will you feel?
Will you eat reel to reel?
Will you this? Will you that?
Will you be a fish -– a sprat?
Will you watch the television?
What will be your expectation?
Will you love? Will you hate?
Will you have a balding pate?

What will you do?
What will the weather be?
Will you get stung by a nasty old bumble bee?
Will you be dead?
Will you be old?
Will you do what you're told?

When you get out, what will the reason be?
Will you succumb to drug-induced flattery?
When you get out,
When will you die?
When will you pluck that mote from your eye?

What would your job be?
We’ll have to wait and see.
Will you glee in sober revelry?

When you get out,
Will you shout?
Will you swagger thereabouts?
When you get out. When you get out.
I’m going to torment you, about when you get out.

When you get out, you won’t have a clue.
You’ll be idle not knowing what to do.
When you get out,
I might not be there.
You might not even be part of the furniture.
Will you use your airs and graces?
Will you see familiar faces?

You will not be sublime.
You will not be safe or fine.

I will tell you what to do.
You need gaolers -– any screw.

You will be a fine old risk.
Your life will be a brazen wish.
You’re a dreamer, through and through.
Your friends will not be any who,
Refrain from drink, and drugs, and stuff.
Your idleness won’t be enough.
Your life will be a mouldy flannel.
There’ll only be the music channel.
By this time you’ll have false hips.
Too late for relationships.
You’ll be old and doddery,
Not longing for your liberty.
You’ll be this. You’ll be that.
I’ll pluck this rabbit from a hat.
Until this time you’ll be just good.
Not like old Robin Hood.
Stop. Just stop. This is enough.
Too much for a naive tough.
My head is battered and abused,
By dreaming of this nasty ruse.

When I get out, I really don’t know.
I’ll just have to sit and grow.
So until such time, I’ll be just happy.
Just me -– and not any chappy.
When I get out, you won’t do my head in,
Talking of freedom like a royal wedding.
When I get out, I’ll be uncertain,
Unsure of myself -– and colour for curtains.
When I get out, it won’t be all fine,
I’ll refrain from purchasing a glass of wine.
When I get out, I’ll not be mad.
I might even be very sad,
About the way things were, and how I got be here.
So until such events, please do me the great pleasure,
Of refraining from perplexing and bothering me with,
Thoughts surrounding such hypothetical and imaginary,
Scenarios about what it will be like, “when you get out”.