Harry, super: vicious—strikes me in hall.
Harry gets pernicious—kicks me in the balls.
Thirteenth floor, just stairway—gotta drag my ass.
Can’t make it—out of luck. If I do, I gasp.

I believe that a thing called a “lift” would be grand,
But I suffer.
Super’s vicious every day.

Harry, super’s vicious—ain’t got many fans.
All think he’s a problem, but we got no plans.
“What will we do?” they scream in a plaintive song.
Some suggest felony, but they know it’s wrong.

I believe that to fling him off of the roof would land
Us in graybar.
Super’s killin’ ain’t the way.

Larry, super, misses the top stair one day.
Larry, super, misses, lift in a bad way.
Thirteen floors, not traipsin’—broke his foot ’n’ ass,
Seventh thoracic stuck to eighth. . .fused like glass.

But do we grieve for the things that have caused this man
Much to suffer?
Surely you jest—there’s no way!