It was the first day of July;
no wind breathed in the sky
when a pin-striped suit
saw that the Institute of Mental Health was burning

He stood upon the corner
where the sun was warmer
looking across the street,
he moved the shackles on his feet
as the Institute was burning

Flames were roaring, singing like a thunderstorm;
smoke was pouring straight up to the sky;
windows smashing, Gothic doors and lintels fall;
timbers crashing and we both know why

Nobody else came by to stare;
you see, they didn't really care
Can't call the fire brigade -
none of them had been paid
and so the Institute was burning

Throughout the city, people say it isn't pretty,
everyone agrees, and everyone feels glad;
doctored brains celebrate and everyone waves their chains
It's a pity they're all mad

The Institute of Mental Health
spontaneously killed itself
Ashes to ashes
and dust to dust:
my chains began to rust
as the Institute was burning, burning, burning

(Chris Judge Smith