In the hothouse of your being
Are cultured many things,
By chance and by design.
Many people tramp through you,
Some just pay their respects
And lie sumptuously on the cushions
Of their satisfaction,
Admiring the view.

Once in a while a friend
May leave open your door.
A friend? A friend indeed.
The fresh draught of air
Slakes the thirst, though
Some of your exotica may bleed.