The Living Dead

Held behind cold stone walls, In silence, marched to work. The shabby dressed walked prison halls, Hell waits for those who shirk. Breaking rocks or picking rope, Naught to eat save gruel and bread, Pointless toil, devoid of hope, Here worked the living dead. Mornings in the chapel praying, The gathered wincing at the drops, The hangman had the condemned swaying, Yet more unworthy souls now cropped. The chaplain looking down his nose, He could better use his ministrations, The faithless sat in squalid rows, (As he prayed for a better station.) Ne'er has a place been so bleak, Nor seen more fear and woes, If the Devil sought out company, It would be here he chose.