An Englishman's castle is his tomb,
	His ill-fitting glove, his pit,
	The blistering paper, badly lit,
Lends character to the room
Both undeserved and undefined.
	The color TV denies
	The wretched but private heap which lies
Indecorously around.

But any heat which may seep wantonly
	Through abundant cracks in door and window
Into the street outside and society,
Cannot but help warming the atmosphere's
	Chill, which on summer's days, exudes a slow
Numbing cold. Frozen teardrops become spears.