he got a hovel old and wrecked and turned it into a home
where everyone, be them prince or thug, could all equally roam
in shambles he’d bought it for a song, from someone selling out
their trinkets and ramshackle houses to leave beyond all doubt

he’d never leave that house at all, he had nowhere else to go
long he’d been stuck in his old ways he didn’t care to forego
“you take the chamber at the back, it’s my old storage room”
he never mentioned the word ‘rent’, nor asked for any boon

he always shared all he had, his silence was unceasing
some late nights I listened close to see if he was still breathing
when there’s no person in the world that might ask after you
you may worry about strangers and take from them your due

some night, some bad ol’ Sunday,
he heard me cry alone
he poured me some aged raki that warmed me to the bone
we came close; I left the storage room, we walked into the lane
me clutching my poor crippled heart and him acting as its cane

he made the hovel palace-like no matter where it’d begun
whatever we two did afterwards, no real harm was done
then Monday dawned for that old wreck he’d turned into a home
where everyone, be them prince or thug, could all equally roam

I fled; without telling him I would, I left for good one day
no bad Sunday, no Blue Monday, just any ol’ weekday
but every house I’ve had since then feels like a storage room
now that the sheep have all turned wolves and threatening they loom

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