LAST REFUGE OF THE CRACKPOTS

That tall house on the left, up there,
is where they shut them up; the cracked
and their lolling, jabbering tongues,
talking all the time about their lives,
refusing to perform the simplest routines
like being nice. They shut them up,
with sticky–tape and glue on all the doors
and windows, they couldn't let their thoughts
escape on an unsuspecting public;
the sexually depraved, the rippers and strippers,
the queers, the whippers, jack–booted
women in lumberjack garb, the different, 
the anyones doing anythings to anyothers.
INSERT PENIS HERE! Not just them; the mad,
the almost mad, the angry, the sad,
the disabled, the foreigns, the wogs, the thinkers,
anyone who thought, the drunks. The house was tall
to catch their dreams. At night they had them.
Outside you could hear them shouting
bits of language — Das Kaninchen ist unter
den Fernseher! Die Katze ist auf dem Tisch!
Whackjobs, the lot of them, learning a thing
like that! But, night, it was like the house glowed,
a soft rainbow warming the evening air around it,
spotting celestial bodies through darkness encroaching.
Now they've gone. That tall house on the left,
up there, is where they shut them up.