Escape from the Big House

It was a night not unlike any other night

In which a volcano, an earthquake, and a tidal wave

All played havoc with the winding mountain road

The earth flinched his shoulder as if to shake off a bumblebee

Only in this case, the shoulder was Dead Man's Curve

And the bumblebee was the bus from the mental hospital

Over and over, like a bengal tiger in a washing machine

The black and yellow coach, now cage of death

Rolled down the hill, stopping just short of the lava flow

The driver was dead, as were the orderlies

Their remains now more similar to aphids in a martini shaker

Than their former living selves

All that remained were the fifty straight-jacketed patients

En-route to maximum security

All that remained between them, and a world of freedom

Was the ocean of white-hot blood

Puked up the ulcerous stomach of the Earth

You go first

No, you go first

We'll all go together

And fifty psychopaths, with their arms strapped to their sides

Huffed, and ooch'd, and ow'd their way

Across the expanse of flesh-searing plasma

Like an army of living pogo sticks

They jackhammered their way to a new life