Tin cans a folding, cigar butts scorched,
Crumpled papers to and fro they flew,
Pens mangled in pieces, books torn,
And there is but an empty room with a human.
Lost, drained and ill,
Unclean, cobwebbed corners stood by,
The noisy sound of a sour ventilation rings along,
And a hanging of scattered belongings wreath beyond.
What cure of this indolent character that reeks what owns?
To what course shall it take for what should be undone!?
That which is alike of end to that started.
Then to any neither mistakes pardoned nor attitude learnt.
