A threadbare carpet and a narrow bed,
A window with a crack across the pane,
A door that fits unsquarely in the jamb,
And a cold, bricked-up fireplace.
A bare board winding staircase, mind your head,
These bedsit hovels all look much the same,
But after all these years, who gives a damn?
It’s just one more empty room.
In London West Eleven, Manchester,
Or Birmingham, or Headingley in Leeds,
In any major town or conurbation.
How many since? How many more?
No wanderlust, for you’re no trav’lling man,
But jetsam, time again you’re washed ashore,
Stop here a year, perhaps a little more,
Then move on to another town...
And another empty room.
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