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 -
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.
The Missing Link - Gaia's Boy Toy