There’s a stain on the floor
I can’t get out.
I put a rug over it, but it peeked over the edge.
I made the dog sleep on it, but he wouldn’t stay.
I drew a face on it and called it Frank.

There’s a stain on the floor
I can’t get out.
It screams at me when I sit visiting with friends.
It waves its arms at me when I try to read my book.
F*ck you, Frank.

There’s a stain on the floor
I can’t get out.
It keeps me company when rains come.
It listens to my midnight rants about politics and war and hemlines.
Frank and I are very happy.