This fire-trap, my home: Elongated shoebox, or coffin Awaiting the crematorium; An arsonists dream And a fire-fighter's nightmare; Cluttered with books, boxes, plastics - If it's flammable, it's crowding the hallway. To seal the deal - and all who dwell within - Security-conscious Landlord's Barred all the windows, leaving one exit, Presuming, when the conflagration comes, That anyone can run the gauntlet Of an infernal tunnel - An exit, true, but not for this life. Of course, the smoke alarm installed Could've provided warning, had it not died At the end of a cricket bat Because of its sensitivity to toast. And the Batsman, sleeping on the couch In a drunken stupor, loaded With cigarettes, lighters and matches, And a penchant for late-night chips, Could spark the trap that dooms us all.