I like master-keys.
Any easy solution to locks.
Let me in.
I have creaky needs.
My needs are in a 1950s atomic-bomb shelter.
After a dull searching moment, they know to go down there.
People are selfish shits and fair-weather fuckers.
Clap in all the corners of the room. Banish.
Happiness can’t be cracked like a puzzle, a nut.
In the bunker, it’s a bit airless but there’s plenty of tinned food.
My needs are lying on a bunk bed reading an old Agatha Christie.
The blanket is itchy. I’ve always hated mysteries.