Up he goes the fictitious flight of stairs,
to his pending plight so unawares.

The door to lift
and through the narrow rift
	to take a sneaky perusive peek.
Then to enter the unoft
entered loft
	with an accompanying creepy illusive creek.

To find merely a trap the trapdoor,
merely a poster upon the floor.
A great deal unreal
	with lying beside it a pair of busy scissors
and the odd paper peel.

On the one side
	of the wall
		is a one way window looking from the outside in,
and another's spied
	from which is heard a call
		being inside out to the other - it's almost kin.

The last laugh's on him
	and comes from the real world ,it turns out, outside
		at which he so oft
		scoffed.

A mean painted
	parody-box
is this barely tainted
	parlour of paradox.

He's author of this mental gall,
shouting loud from wall to wall
	and even banging hard,
	they heard
	but would not heed
his call
		to try escape at last
this mentally moulded maddening mall,
			his epitome.
		But, instead he's painted fast
and stuck like putty upon the wall
			his certain doom.

From the constant sucking of a thumb
will come
this visual pun - this conundrum.