Cardboard Boxes

We live in these little cardboard boxes. Flats they're called. Cardboard coffins I call them. We call them. We can hear everything that goes on in this flea palace. So can the fleas. They can here Jimmy'meboy and they can hear the git upstairs, and the old poofs over cross the way. And it smells in here all over the East End. And we pretend we love in this sty. That Melba up there is not pacing slamming her feet against the floor, round and round the rotten circular rug from of course a flea sal

cardboard boxes

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