I am sick of insinuation in your stare;
Whenever you ascend the stair
To clean my room and change the bedding
You linger over the stained sheets
And curlicues of hair.
I pay my rent
Yet each week is rent
The solitude I weave
Around myself, to which
The willing company of whores is lent.
It’s my own room,
In it is room
To hide from people such as you
Whose reality is shrouded
In your own personal gloom.
Out, damn you, landladybitch,
You’re too old for me anyway
And besides, soon my girl arrives –
She’s quite good, so why switch?