Little Doll House

He’d rather she trashed around on a dirty bed,
Between the red sheets and fairy cushions.
Writhing under him, pleading, begging
Asking, wanting, needing, and thinking he cares.

She’d rather be playing with her paint set,
With her father's old records playing.
Or drinking gin and lemonade on the promenade
Dancing, singing, swaying, amongst the crowd.

But their electricity gets cut off once a week,
And he keeps losing his keys,
And she’s leaving him, moving home running away, and
He doesn’t notice that her clothes are leaving the house.

He’ll never understand how she could play
With the old doll house in the loft for hours.
And she’ll never understand how all he sees
Is a white wooden box with painted flowers.

Her wooden doll house, with its front door locked;
And its metal hinges rusted and old,
Is the place she calls home, and
She knows that when she finds the key;
She’ll understand why she never let him in.