The truth
Is hard to let out;
I've locked it up
With a golden key,
And I wont let you in
Until I can sort out
This mess I've made;
This mess I've found.
"In a state of cleaning,"
I'll post it on my door,
Then shut it before you
So you wont ask anymore.
Your consideration
Is duly noted,
But I wont pay you for
The convenience you pose me;
Because you wont get behind
These concrete walls
And this barbed wire lining
'Till I'm done cleaning.