The Euthanasia of Thaddeus Adrian Ecker: Ironpike Mental Asylum: Inmate 17 Whittle and scattles,All lie about in the dungeons and darkAbound with the dust,Rattles and bones, and...Pages whet with inkHoned and sharp,Rank with the must of years too longToo swift, too tiresome, too hideousToo pleasant too, and in foolish flightEscape with the wingmen,Side-by-sideDenial and misery brothers in arms Among all the gyre and gimbleAnd mimsy borogroves,A cat with red eyes smiles back,His frame thin and black,With poison words and poison teethHe asks; are you lost? Turn back?Seldom has been the grin without cat. Slithering chains,Restless Great Danes And all the highway lanes,Twisting-turning back,Losing the ways and maps and eyesTill falls noonAnd wandering resumes,All full of questions like"Do I turn back?""Am I intact?" Among all the gyre and gimbleAnd mimsy borogroves,A cat with red eyes smiles back,His frame thin and black,With poison words and poison teethHe asks; are you lost? Turn back?Seldom has the grin been without cat. Out of nature's delights,The pleasant flightsThe shares of caresThe winding fingersCurl in upon themselvesWilling willows, old and greyWhere children no longer come,Or play-Such willows are no longer gayThreaded with matte and oil and waxSpun like flax and traveler's talesUsed up like whales,And old unfashionable bad ales,Wandering the twisted streets,Lined beats of no police,The madness entreats,Without method or wayCalling silentlyThe frivolous inset talking, pointing;"That is not, that is rot""That is unworthy" Among all the gyre and gimbleAnd mimsy borogroves,A cat with red eyes smiles back,His frame thin and black,With poison words and poison teethHe asks; are you lost? Turn back?Seldom has been the grin without cat. When the end is come walking,Like martyrs in their mindsStepping on chains and binds,And stuffed with plugsAnd stuffed with rugsStraight jacketed to your mindAnd the man beside you long dead,Chains and pains followDown the hallway with blood and dirtAnd insanity in the cracks-betweenThe filth. Among all the gyre and gimbleAnd mimsy borogroves,A cat with red eyes smiles back,His frame thin and black,With poison words and poison teethHe asks; are you lost? Turn back?Seldom has been the grin without cat. In the vast dark the only scream,Is unheard,That pitiful cry signaling the last,The executioner's toll,Down the hall, down you go, Down rows of white doors, And rooms long ago besmirchedTheir wash.Down you go,Long ago you lost the fight,Shadows in your head, they cannot get out.Down you go, go, go,The executioner's toll,Fast closing walls, you cannotCannot Cannot get out.In your fearIn the dark of your prison all you hear... And none know which was the true;You or you?