Eratosphere - Who's online?

Good afternoon. I'm glad to see
You've made it safely. Follow me --
I'll take you on the scenic route
Around our "hallowed" institute.
Within these walls you're sure to find
Many a divergent mind;
Most harmless, though some slightly more
"Incongruous." Behind this door
We have our recreation hall,
With TVs mounted on the wall,
Inoffensive books to read
And pastimes to fill every need.
Now through the kitchen is Ward Five
For patients who are not alive
In mind, although they breathe the air
And still receive our constant care.
There's Marge -- she came from Newport News
With pathologic hate for Jews,
Then fell, three years ago this date
Into a catatonic state.
"But why?" some ask; well, no one's sure --
You'd have more luck in asking her.
Across the ramp we have Ward Four:
It houses casualties of war --
A rank of brave and noble-hearted
Men whose sanities departed.
Come over, meet a man named Sam
Who served two terms in Vietnam.
He's sixty now: a man bereft
Of reason -- thinks he never left;
Believes he's in a foreign land
Still fighting V.C. hand-to-hand,
Platoon outnumbered, undermanned
For forty years, we understand.
Now some might say he's not insane:
That all the visions in his brain
Are just as real to him as the
Asylum is to you or me;
Yet I presume that he's aware
Our world exists, and he's not there.
Ward Three is for our general crowd
Who softly seethe or rant aloud --
The sort most would call "nut" or "loon"
For howling at the waxing moon.
There's Amy -- she's a schizophrene
Who came to us at age sixteen
From Trenton, where her parents died
(A likely murder-suicide).
When lucid, she's demure and shy
And seldom looks you in the eye,
Still young enough to give you hope
That she might find a way to cope.
But then some thing will set her off:
A buzzing fly, a muffled cough,
She'll storm and scream and tear her hair,
She'll grind her teeth and claw the air,
She'll claim the voices in her head
Conspire with us and want her dead.
When she is in this manic state
Our only choice is to sedate.
The other wards are down one floor
Behind another bolted door.
Ward Two is for the violent sorts
Whose pathos most disturb the courts:
Those deviants and pedophiles
A sane society reviles.
They are the kind that prisons fear:
When wardens balk, they get sent here.
You cannot rehabilitate
Someone whose acts are so innate;
We simply take them in and let
America outside forget
The truth in no uncertain terms:
Some apples in the pie have worms.
These aren't the worst though; they're outdone
By those we keep down in Ward One
Beyond a chamber, doubly barred,
And flanked all day by constant guard.
The cells that line this final hall
Are filled with those whose crimes appal --
Some psychopaths you've likely seen
Portrayed, and glamorized on screen.
The homicidal maniacs
Whose gruesome histories of attacks
Obtained them a "Not guilty" plea,
By reason of insanity.
They're not "mixed up" and they're not "nuts" --
The system doesn't have the guts
To punish them beyond refute:
To end the threat and execute.
But you know this. It's why you're here.
You thrived on torment, death and fear;
You hunted dozens, killed your share,
And yet, I'm not convinced you care.
It's just your nature, right? To kill
Your fellow man just for the thrill?
It doesn't matter anyway --
You're here, and surely here to stay,
For this concludes our tour. Your cell
Awaits. I'm sure you'll fit in well.