Are you there, God? It's Falstaff

[Poetry Request # 12]

Full of teen-angst, Shoe-fiend said. It's been a while, and I was never a particularly normal teenager (my idea of 'rage' music, for instance, was the first movement of Beethoven's Emperor Concerto), but here goes:

Hey, you upstairs! Can you hear me?
I know you're up there.
Look, we need to talk about our situation,
we really do.
So why don't you come down,
or maybe I could come up?
Hello? Are you listening to me?

Fine, if that's the way you want it.
I'll just tell you from here.
Let the neighbours listen.
Here's the deal:
I've been good to you, haven't I?
Given you what you asked for?
When you wanted the first nine month's rent
in advance, I paid, didn't I?
And when you asked for weekly payments
I agreed to that as well.
And every night you're thundering and rumbling up there
doing you only know what,
keeping me awake,
but have I ever complained?
And that time you flooded the basement
and I had to get Noah to help me move my stuff out;
I didn't ask you for damages, did I,
even though I was entitled?
Why, I've even tried to obey
these stupid bullet-point 'commandments'
you keep pasting in every room,
I really have.

But this 'no girls' thing - that's too much,
that's going too far.
I mean, who do you think you are
anyway? You're not my Father.
You're not my boss.
You're just the damn landlord!
There are other Gods around you know,
plenty of vacancies, all over the street.
Hell, if it weren't for the fact
that moving is such a pain
I would have left this shithole years ago.
Because let's face it, this place stinks.
Sure, the garden's nice,
but the rest of it -
the roof leaks, the climate control's all wonky,
nothing ever works the way it's supposed to.
Are you listening to me?

Look, say I have a girl come and visit.
What's that to you?
Say she even stays the night,
say we have sex.
So?
What have you got against sex anyway?
It's not like you're so squeaky clean,
Mr. Father-cum-Holy Ghost.
At least when I have sex with a woman
I do it properly,
I don't slip a baby into her womb
when no one is looking
like she was some kind of secret bank account.
Who treats a woman like that, anyway?
Who treats his own son like that?
Sanctimonious bastard.

Look, this is all besides the point.
You live your life the way you want to.
It's none of my business.
I just wish you'd let me live mine.

Are you even listening to me?
But of course you are.
You're lapping this up, aren't you?
You're probably getting it all on tape.
You're probably going to sit
and listen to it all night.
Because that's how you get your kicks, isn't it,
hearing people complain?
Well, fuck this.
I'm tired of trying to reason with you
and having you sit all aloof up there
like you were judging me or something.
From now on I'm telling you.
I'm going to have whoever I want in my life,
girl, boy, whatever,
and if you don't like it, well,
you're welcome to come down here
and kick my ass.

IF you can.

You got that?

I catch you messing around with my friends again,
trying to scare them away and stuff,
and I swear I'll punch your fungus-covered face in.

And another thing,
I'm through with this forbidden fruit shit.
From now I'm eating whatever I damn well want.
Do you understand?
If you don't like it you can cancel my lease,
see if I care.

Oh, and speaking of leases,
have you noticed that the light on the porch
is out again?
It may not matter to you,
being omniscient and all,
but for the rest of us it's dark at night.
So how about you make yourself useful for once
and change a lightbulb?
Let there be light.
It's in the contract, you know.

Are you listening to me?