Your tirade comes, it doth commence,
a hundred miles away I sense
your raging, whiny voice so tense.
In restful tones, my evening sigh
doth thank these stars, you’re in L.A.
I shirk my duties ever nigh
and thoughts engage where'er they may.
As I recline, dark quickly falls
and in my dreams, I snub your calls.
Yet when I wake, receding walls
resound your dire return to home.
I sense both hearts long to be free.
Go claim L.A., just let me roam
these miles that winnow thee from me.