Monthly Archives: December 2015

Prison Poetry

Several Ranters came out of prison after writing to the likes of Attila the Stockbroker and started gigging.
These poems come from Hidden Voices, which was a small magazine put out by East London Women Against Prison in November 1981.


I don’t like your flowers, the
sweet smelling ever-so-nice
Or the grass – well-ordered, cut
short with no moss
The beautifully kept all-for-the-
public-image gardens.

I don’t like your neat and tidy
people with the keys,
The ever-so helpful, ever-so
blind people –
Nor your sliding doors, and the
tiny little rooms to wait
For wind up hours.

I don’t like the hypocracy, the
hatred, the suffocating,
dehumanising torture of my
brothers locked behind your
Beautiful flowers and your green
green lawns.


The Perfect Con

I’ll lick your fat pink arse dear pig,
I’ll come when you call and dance your jig,
For a years remission I’ll bow and scrape,
When that door opens, don’t wanna be late.
When the day ever comes that I’m free again,
While helping my family forget their pain,
I’ll be really quite and good and norm,
You can praise each other – a complete reform. . . .

My day will come, when the people rise
And slaughter the pig, and put out it’s yes;
I’ll be there in the ranks my dear,
You’ll feel my knife as you hear me cheer,
I’ll hear you mutter, “Ungrateful Sod”
As you go to the devil – Or do pigs love God?

Ann Mak

Isn’t It Good To Be Half-Alive

I’m fed up with mash
and corned beef hash,
I’m fed up with sausages too;
I’m fed up with locks
and two pairs of socks,
I’m fed with two shades
of blue.

I’m sick of the sight
of flourescent light,
I’m sick of eating with plastic;
I’m sick of these jails
and their censored mail,
And pants that have no

I’m tired of the boors
and scrubbing the floors
I’m tired of cleaning out coppers;
I’m tired of tea,
and not being free,
I’m tired of mental


HMP Slade