This is the Day that Never Ends

Kind of like the Animaniacs song. The one that almost got you arrested for child abuse when you tried to end it prematurely. You much preferred the one about the Capitals. The one about the Presidents. Men like to sing those songs in prison. Big men with gang affiliations. They sing those songs while they are raping or murdering, pillaging or plundering, or making jailhouse wine from disgusting things you never even knew fermented. They have lots of time to memorize lots of things. They are rather like poets in this, and they also inhabit variants on the cubicle, again like most poets, who are usually academics. And like academics they spend their days fashioning tiny shivs from the most prosaic materials. Except the guys on the inside are usually prettier. They kiss better too, because they have more time to practice that also. There is a maturity deficit, but some say this is counterbalanced by the sense of protection they afford their lovers. And the extended serenade, which they have learned to perfect, an art of patience understood now only by the vanished troubadours.