And set large quantities of booby-traps
And then went home—a little tired, perhaps.
They left their paint-pots strewn about the stair,
And switched the lights off—but I knew the game;
They took the geyser—none could tell me where;
It was impossible to wash my frame.
The painted windows would not shut again,
But gaped for ever at the Eastern skies;
The house was full of icicles and rain;
The bedrooms smelled of turpentine and size;