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there’s a rat in my wall
a boy in my bed
one’s breathing deeply
one is quite dead

a concoction of compounds
floats in the air
a mix of sweet passion
and morbid despair

the slamming and scratching
let tired walls rest
while silence and street spice
now season the nest

but taste only matters
to those that are dreaming
with eyelids unglued
and consciousness streaming

a boy or a rat
a slumber’s a slumber
two against one
it’s me they outnumber

the warmth of the night
invites visions of roaches
arriving in style
in central park coaches.

if they were to trot
under cracks running deep
would I welcome the foes
or send them to sleep

i relish the draft
solitary perfection
surrounded by shut-eye
in every direction.