A bed by the window — a double an’ all!
A sink in the corner, the lav’ down the hall,
Linoleum nailed to the planks on the floor,
And to top it all off, a lock on the door!
A view of a garden where nothing will grow,
Gas in the meter a shilling a throw,
Wallpaper roses whose petals have blown,
A table, a chair and a room of my own.
The table-top sticky with other men’s stains,
The air smelling faintly of cabbage and drains,
I open my suitcase and fill up a drawer
While my eyes caress the lock on the door.
A room of my own! I shall put up a shelf
And fill it with books I’ve chosen myself,
And prune all the landlady’s roses away
With posters of Lennon and Jimmy and Ché.
I’ll paint all the light bulbs a luminous red,
And Jane will come over and leap in the bed,
And we’ll smoke & make love & giggle & plan
As Bob whines ‘Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man...’
And now I’ve a mansion with locks by the score,
But nobody leaps in my bed anymore,
It’s forty years on, and the roses have blown —
And a man can get lost in a room of his own.