It’s not the poorest of dark-street apartments;
it’s all I can afford with my allotment.
It is not a rathole—that’s sure not high praise;
otherwise the landlord would give me a price raise
Ceilings ain’t high, and the rooms are shallow;
it is not in pity that I plan to wallow.

Well, so humble is my hovel;
it is surely not fancy, no.
There is no doubt that it ain’t much,
but at least it is pretty comfy.

The shape of the building itself is a square;
if the elevator’s broken, I’ll have to take the stairs.
And sometimes I will notice: It is getting colder,
so I throw some food into the roaster…
warms up the place as well as being dinner,
but this only happens in the dead of winter.

OK, so humble is my hovel;
no high-rent places for me, no.
There is no doubt that it ain’t much,
but at least it isn’t poverty.

No crocodile tears will I cry; there’ll be no teeth-gnashin’;
it suits me just fine, but it ain’t high fashion.
I’ve lived most of my life here and cannot be gone
because rent control means I will be staying on.
The place is quite small, so there isn’t much room.
But it ain’t like I’m locked in NYC’s The Tombs.

Although humble is my hovel,
I can exit freely, yes.
Were I in Rykers, I’d be locked up,
and then they might throw away the key. Stress!