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An indicator of culture or sign of progress,
Sometimes to friends or strangers passing by.
Innermost secrets or simply the obvious,
Like clothes left hanging out to dry.
But the connoisseur or the unknown critic,
Should judge from the state of a commode.
Fancy sheets might adorn the bedside,
In her sanctuary, and her abode.
Some might notice the fancy tablecloth's,
With their fancy and intricate design.
Yet one will focus on yesterdays soiled dishrag,
To ascertain she's not so refined.
Never underestimate this abode, yes her castle,
A queen or princess yet she may be not.
But the man who forgets, to dispose of the trash,
Is most certain that night passion forgot.
So yes, I confess my home far away in Mars,
Is so different, yet I'm resolved quite as a mouse.
Understanding, complimentary, never to question,
When it comes to this, my woman's house.
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