I beg all visitors that be, "Close the door and turn off the light." In the grip of ambivalence I've often winced and cried aloud. Asked to bestow but a few pence I've hid within this bedding shroud. Beyond this place of ruffled frills, Looms the horror of work and strife But while me mum is paying bills I'm freed to sleep away my life. It matters not that you berate, Or plead with me to set some goal, I am the master of my fate 'Til the record sales do dwindle away." Do not mow bleckly o'er that dust mite,