the madman

he called her at midnight
and he called her at one
he called her at any odd hour

but he'd never call at five
and never call at six
not even seven for a happy hour

and she was tired at those odd times
and had principles too
so she always said no, no thank you

so he'd come to her door
and he'd call her from the stairwell
and from outside he'd throw shit at her window

but she didn’t open the door
and she didn't answer his calls
'cause she was already fast asleep and didn't notice

which was a lame waste
‘cause he could have been so nice
though he was rarely ever sane enough to show it

instead he'd write like a madman
and fling shit like a madman
and destroy the waking hours with bad poetry

so she'd sleep all alone
and he'd sleep in his delusion
and they'd never get a chance to sleep together

because she had principles
and he had principles
and in her eyes, his were those of useless madmen