At the bottom of the stair, an evil witch's lair:
Mean and moody and blue.
In the early morning sun with a loaded gun I stand —
Blind horsemen pass by.
From an upstairs window hang two knights in white satin,
While at the front door Mary flirts openly with Mick.
Deft attic poets stitch up disintegrating dreams,
Rock musicians cram rhyming words into empty phrases,
And bipolar house guests chase umpteen nervous breakdowns.
In the kitchen, seven small shrimp sizzle in stainless-steel saucepans,
Ten sausages roast in the fires from hell,
And Mary's home-made muffins warm near red-hot coals.

"If that's poetry, man," says Mick the ageing hippy, "gimme mine rare."
Mary kisses Mick's throbbing temples,
While a man from a Richard Brautigan story
Takes Polaroids of the house.
"What!" cries Mick. "Will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?"
"C'mon, Shakespeare," says Mary in her nurse's voice,
"Time for your meal and medication."
"But this house is full of mutants, retards and weirdos."
"Welcome to the community."

Pop music doth not a prison make,
Granite stone confronts the test of time,
Empty rugs don't gather any moss,
After many a summer die the stones.