Cra Lives Here Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

I have met so many in my days,
who would demand admission to the place.
Clean-shaven and surrounded by the fragrance of Cardin
you'd carry your Schick-pampered chins with pride.

You did not ask, you ripped the fabric door,
a curtain that was made of silk and lace,
and just a patch or two of autumn kangaroo hide.
It is a day of sorts, the French call it Martin,
they also say that all of life is an encore,
and that the people carry on inside a haze.

My place is closed to all, it has been spoken for.
I cannot have another guest, I do regret,
all rooms are taken from the basement to each floor
it's been a love-in since the very day we met.