"In my father's house are many mansions."
Tenants abound in this tenement of clay:
A petulant child insists "I want!"
An adolescent son, now in his thirties,
Sees in his wife
his mother
and
Defies her in whatever she demands
An evangelist stands on a soap box
In a pulpit before any congregation, any crowd, any mob
To declare the sad sick state of affairs
A writer sits scribbling on a pad
Inventing lies and lives and truths
An aging father sits back in his chair
And wonders what his sons are all about
A singer caresses the microphone as he sings
Listens to his recorded voice
While the hand of Narcissus strokes the pond
A lover lies abed and speaks of Fleas
And there are plenty more
And room for others still
(The sign out the front still reads: Vacancies)
A guru who is sometimes wise enough to know
That vanity comes in a variety of sizes
And wears many disguises
So many tenants to keep the caretaker occupied
There's even a spare room down the hallway
Kept for a muse who sometimes visits.
Now and then you hear the singing
Echoing and rippling through the house.
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