There was a man,
Who had a brain,
And went insane.

His thoughts and feelings
Flew around him,
To dround him, in his
Wallow and selfe-pitty-itty.

His visage retorted and contorted,
While he florted and evased,
In the lace of space
Amoungst the iron pile-ings
Of gauge #12.

Staring foreward, Not backward,
Nor sideward, nor neither-wich-way-ward
With eyes of scrutiny.

His ears covered with mesh,
To help arrest
His tormented soul.

Soul, like sand sliding silently
Slipping smoothly with a 
Separated sense of sentimental Security

All amoungst the gauge of #12, of an Iron Illiad.