Weet-Bix for dinner
It's just me and the mouse
I hear next doors' mouths
Childspeak and steak-house happiness

There seems to be no alternative
To ant-ridden bread and crawling toothbrushes
The furniture is taking on figures and forms
Of friends that I can't find

My bed is soft and sweet
But I'm terrified that I can't outsleep
What is wrong with me.