In the salami asylum 
it’s electrodes à gogo 
and Château d’Yquem;

it’s Thorazine spritzers, Betelgeuse, 
and a cardboard kidney 
dish of phlegm.

In the salami asylum
there’s a stick thin
Austrian nurse

who spends her time 
reminding you 
that things 
can always get worse.

She takes away your power
and keeps it safe
with your will

at the top of a crystalline tower
on a five-and-a-half
inch windowsill.

In the salami asylum
the inmates are all
doing life;

there’s a donor who’s friends
with the owner
and got a cut 
rate for his wife.

In the salami asylum
you’ll revert to the mean
or the norm;

the food is the color of entropy
and the rooms
are hermetically warm.

In the salami asylum
everything is swell;

Pfizer sponsors loneliness
and GlaxoSmithKline hell.