I've got one of these. I have a tabloid imagination, obsessed with sex and violence.
The Spare Room
Ascend the winding second stair
To find the room we call the spare.
Itís very cold and very bare,
A bed, a cupboard and a chair,
And something rotten in the air,
A touch of evil rich and rare,
A quality of deep despair
In spirits deft and debonair,
The rent boys of the millionaire,
Their brass and leather underwear,
Their corpses shaved of pubic hair,
Each penis a boutonniere,
Itís all a pretty rum affair,
A secret none of us can share,
A whiff of some satanic prayer.
Blow out the candle if you dare.