He’s painted the bedroom walls in all the wrong colour
Since when did gold become yellow?
I emphasise the importance of the hue
He shrugs, and begins to paint the hall in blue
I follow him around the house
Gasping as his brush dips into the green
I try to stop him but it’s too late
My bathroom looks obscene
He’s taking orders from my wife
The front door needs to be painted pink
I slump on the chair in disgust
In desperate need of an alcoholic drink
The neighbours are not happy
They want us to paint the door black
Mrs Jones has already telephoned the council
It looks even worse when I stand back
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