Soft sell.

Cell doors slam,reverberate
Bedridden gangsters masturbate,
best intentions left too late,
unintentionally beat the crap out of his first date,
grinding,
twisted rotten teeth,
on broken glass hidden beneath,
some slop on a tray,
so you sleep and you pray,
for a safe shower day,
emerging intact,
not fucked to shit by a bloke too well stacked,
so you leave then you're able,
to attend jobcentres table,
where you can
if you seek,
to be candid and meek,
put your nose to the stone,
for your sins you'll atone,
but you long for destruction,
napalm benediction,
delivered with conviction
by a man with no diction,
who thrives on the friction,
and who preys on the waifs and the strays,
who sleep afraid in HMV doorways,
who tremble with fright at the sight,
of this turgid no-name dogshite,
who slays like the Krays,
with a keen blade he made
with the tools of his trade,
its a life he's betrayed,
and portrayed,
by an A list grade on Broadway,
he's made out of clay
from the scraps tray,
by a poor sculpting slave
who repeats his trade
for the wages he's paid
in exchange for each day
as he sits and he toils,
making people from soil,
and the bits he leaves out
have made lesser men doubt.