The Drapes of Wrath

The rose-upholstered chair and the matching loveseat

The dry and musty air, dust motes baking in the heat

And the heavy eggplant curtains that came down in the aftermath

I remember, you called them "The Drapes of Wrath."

Oh, we could tango to an old record

Or we could tangle in the bed-skirt on the window seat

I don't know why it's there

But I don't really care

Why don't we make some lemonade to beat the heat

Oh, we could paint over the wallpaper

Or we could have a pillow fight with these tasseled cushions

The embroidery's fine and rare

But I don't really care

The eggplant curtains are getting trampled under our feet