The squalls of her sister’s baby,
The whistling of her ten-year-old son,
The vocalization of the lady in the next room,
The violent piano exercise of the widow boarder,
When we might seek another place? aye, there’s the respect,
Why leave this bedlam, to which no boarder e’er returns?
Puzzles the will and makes us rather bear these ills we have,
Than fly to those we know not of.
Thus hunger makes cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution