Unspeakable’s the word for it, The noise at dawn each time I stay At Hotel Terminus, right in The city’s heart. This mix of moan, Roar whimper scream and sigh gulped down, The manager is sure, as though I’m half-witted for having asked, Is nothing more than pigeons round The trash bins in the kitchen yard. But even so, from the eighth floor, That otherwise is perfect for A good night’s sleep, this sound, which as It startles me awake and has Me fighting to set my thoughts straight, Can only come from souls in hell,…
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