The Guard Commander sitting in his chair
Sighs, glances around and ruffles his hair.
Peace. Neither grey-clad, plastic telephone
Dares to ring, ere the snap of telling bone
Summons, once more, peace from the ringing air
And death comes for the noisy, ringing pair.
Dark night, brightened by secure light
And the brain numbingly, noisy striplight;
The blank shadows and cold radiators
And, occasionally, mute-noted motors;
The Guard sent out every second hour
To prowl the shadows of this our bower:
Two men to stand, each hour, and guard the gate,
Thus, to keep at bay the dreaded ingrate.