Last night of another Fagin

His bulging eyes
chased a little rodent
within his dingy cell
"Oliver! Disobedient boy!
Come home!"

"See! So many heads hanging above!
Which one is yours, Oliver?"
Clenched fists struck the wall,
"Which one is yours?"

A clock chimed eight.
"Eight" echoed the roof, iron bars
the wooden bench, the cold floor;
he muttered, "eleven remains".

Eleven times sixty minutes.
Rather, eleven times sixty, multiplied
further by sixty, seconds. Remain.
"Remain there, keep still . . .hush!"

Something crossed over his toes,
he shivered and screeched,
"Strike them all dead!"

Swift movements went on
around him.

The clock struck nine.