It’s not that the fire’s gone out dear, quite the contrary;
the fire’s raging, sparks flying uncontrollably up the chimney.
I piled on the wood you see and when that ran out
I chopped up the antique furniture; your mother’s oak dresser
kept it going for quite some time. I’m afraid I ripped down
the curtains too and fed them to the inferno.
The carpets? Tore them up with my bare hands and watched
while they frizzled away to nothing. Did you know when you
set fire to wool it smells like human hair burning?
No, it’s not that the fire’s gone out dear, quite the contrary;
it’s just that the wind changed and the smoke’s
no longer blowing in your direction.