The Creeping Shade

It’s back again, the creeping shade,

My constant companion in the damp. 

Upon the wall, there is displayed

The old, cold landlord’s tight-fisted stamp. 

We’ve been up and down with water and bleach, 

Blessing the four walls of our small flat. 

Saturday morning, the songbird’s screech,

Offers music for our labour, that

Evidently, was all in vain, 

For the crawling shadow’s back again. 

My, isn’t this a dull refrain?

Sometimes, peering at the restless mould, 

Shapes appear: dragons, tramps bent and old;

Hellish imps, dancing in black flame

(No two of these pictures are the same!)

And ashen forests, where dark birds glide, 

Black moons above a colourless tide. 

Course, we’ve been up and down with brush and bleach, 

Blessing the four walls of our small flat. 

It’s Saturday morning; a seagull’s screech,

Provides music for our labour, that

Once again, was performed in vain, 

For the wall’s regained its sprawling stain. 

Now, isn’t this a dull refrain?

Our landlord’s got a lot on his plate, 

He’s got ten more properties under his belt.

Rooms for rent in a similar state, 

What a fine deal my generation’s been dealt!

Mycosis, the star-sign of Generation Rent, 

Born under a withered lung, vitality spent.

Again, up and down with brush and bleach, 

Smearing the peeling walls of our flat. 

A black-skyed morning, no cheerful screech

Accompanies our labour, that, 

As you can guess, was all in vain, 

The mould is back, with ground to gain.

Christ, isn’t this a dull refrain?