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It's over, it's over, the papers on roller,
loud and she's loud and it's getting to morning.
The voices next door and the radio's droning,
not enough for the parents in 28 Chauncer.

And I haven't age or a word for this horror,
not safe for my sleeping or safe in my slumber.
She gives no god damns if I'm awake or I'm dreaming,
he whispers like hell is in her bloody murder.

And she will not be quiet, will not cease her pounding,
her voice says you're wrong, and you're bad and she's leaving.
It's two fifty-three and he's work in the morning,
and she says "you don't love me, or our son or our daughter."

But this daughter has ears, and this daughter is listening,
to his pleas for his sleep, his heart, and his honor.
Mom won't stop her raging, her rambling, her screaming,
on into the night and straight on till morning.

In the morning, I wake and you're down in the parlor,
eyes painted red, father to daughter.
In the morning, it's over, and she's smiles and she's laughter.
In his hands are the papers: I can breathe and it's over.

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