How like a prison is my cubicle
The only company the god-dammed ants
No human voice,mere sounds funereal
No-one to admire these woollen pants.
My brassiere has not been washed for fifty years
I fear a wash might spoil its perfect shape
Yet no doubt it’s been rinsed by floods of tears
When in my lonesome misery I moped
My sweater’s recommended for the cold
I sniff in wonder for it smells so gross
Yet I bought it chiefly for its mold
The mossy colour matches other clothes.
If you can afford it, get some soap,
As then your lover might enjoy a grope.
How my heart sings 