Deep, deep into the Black Forest there stands 
what some call a nuthouse, a mad man's land.
An asylum, in a less colloquial sense -
and this one with particularily high fence.

Oh, the denizens are of the worst kind.
They snigger and snicker, out of their mind.
One of those insane men truly is sad.
All he wants is see the world burn.. a tad.

"How unfair," a voice in his mind replies,
"That we cannot watch flames fly to the skies!"
This most special fellow writhed on the floor;
lost in himself, truly mad to the core.

And though his hands were firmly tied
his tongue was not - it spit, it lied!
Through blisters it sang a distorted chant
'bout an insect known as the fire ant:

"Oh sweetheart my fire! - just like an ant 
you cannot feed off scorched earth nor dead plants!
They will learn to know the beast never tame
and those runts will stop badmouthing our name!"

Truly spoken, this madman looked grotesque,
as though he arose from a dadaist's desk.
His head jerked up when he heard a bright bell -
it meant that someone came visit his cell. 

"I wonder, will it be that mean old man
or just an orderly with a spray can?"
Thus mocked the thoughtful voice inside his head
though Steve could not feel anything but dread.

The good guest who was about to arrive
was who jailed him in this miserable life.
The door to his homey den swung open -
revealed the man who knew no emotion.

The residents called him the 'Interloper',
known but for torture, over and over.
He said: "Steve, my friend! How long has it been!"
"Too long," he replied with quite toothy a grin.

"Oh, Steve.. your tongue does not look all that nice,
though I believe the blisters are okay a price -
given that I explained the rules all clear:
torture or be straitjacketed a year?"

Steve, who had different plans for his time,
knew the straitjacket would well ruin his prime;
so he agreed to keep his chance of becoming free -
a momentous decision as he would soon see.