Whose chair this is, I think I know;
Her books are in the cube rooms, though.
She will not see me change down here
And cover deep her chair with clothes.
A bracelet there—a sock tossed here—
Away wing sweaters with good cheer;
The proper conduct—cleaning up—
Frowns grim at me, but deadlines near.
As well as clothes, I place my cup
Wherever handy, when I sup,
Or breakfast, or drink in between:
But rarely do I tidy up.
When reading Homer or Perrine
I change from khakis into jeans.
I know my mess is rather mean:
Perhaps this weekend I shall clean.
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