User blog:Bobdave/My Housemates - For the Poetry Slam

So yea, hai, you doing alright? I'm good. But I've been busy as fuck. So here's a short poem that I managed to write on the back of a piece of scrap paper today in English. It's called My Housemates. Here ya go.

They don't have to feed me; they don't have to care

They don't have to give me a bed or a chair

They don't have to let me outside for fresh air

They don't have to give me these clean clothes to wear

They didn't have to give back the books that I had

They didn't have to give back my pen and my pad

They didn't even have to give me my own light

And they didn't have to cancel my seat on the flight

But they don't have to shout so I rise from my bed

They don't have to throw their empty cans at my head

They don't have to make me clean up all their mess

And they don't have to make me wear that short-cut red dress

They don't have to grind sleeping pills in my stew

And they didn't have to tear up the pictures I drew

They won't let me out and they won't let me call

But I suppose these guys aren't that bad after all

So ye, that's that.