The Fifth Floor

Ken Kesey's novel pressed open, flat
With a heavily weathered sleeve
Hitching a ride on the orderly's trolley
In the asylum on All Hallows' Eve

Dark emerald brick and linoleum
Flickering lights strobe the terrain
The shadows speak as the castors squeak
In the home of the criminally insane

Derrick is doing his midnight rounds
On the notorious fifth floor
The nation's most unhinged minds
Restrained behind each door

There's Jerry, the twisted junkie
Who rampaged with a sharpened crucifix
Made pincushions of twelve addicts
And drank their blood to get his fix

Or Fredrick, the frenzied farmer
Fiercely territorial of his dirt and mud
Earthing up trespassers on his land
Cultivated gently like Maris Piper spuds

And Tommy, the tormented tree surgeon
A Makita chainsaw he did wield
Leaving stacks of limbs dismembered
Like travellers' rubbish in a field

Derrick's mind can sometimes cloud over
Like drifting sediment in beer
He can never remember the start of his shift
Or how he travelled here

He doesn't recognise his own uniform
His mind swims in conspiracies
A sharpened crucifix around his neck
Chainsaw gloves and a set of tractor keys?

Insane asylums and crazy novels
Don't mix well, that's for sure
Derrick lowers his book and realises
He's behind door four on the fifth floor

The first three cells empty
He's alone and can never leave
Condemned for macabre crimes committed
Ten years ago on All Hallows' Eve