Well every orange stain and misty pane says
this place is fifties
and it is falling apart.
And Mr Stefanofawitz is angry,
he smells of gravy.
He must be eighty five years old.
And it is just another monday tuesday day of week.
He keeps the rubbish in his house, at least it is off the street.
He only goes outside to get the social
or fight the council
who think his house is a tip.
And even though he used to have a fruit stall
and not play football,
he is as wily as a fox.
He stacks the rubbish in his house, it is a heap he can't hide.
And every book and every bill is on the mountain inside.
One day years ago his wife deserted him she left him for the dust bin man,
that says a lot about his hoarding ways.
I sometimes fantasize of breaking in there
to see his armchair
up there on top of the hill.
And there atop, enthroned, but like the jester
amid the fester
of everything in the world.