I called it Boris, I named it after a song.
I hope it's a boy, after all, I wouldn't want to offend it in any way by giving it a name of the opposite gendre, now would I?
Why, I hardly even know it yet!
Boris keeps me company when I'm bored and onely, what a guy that Boris is.
I don't know what he lives on, I suppose the baby roaches, which I see crawling in and out of the cracks in the walls.
What a nasty fellow that Boris is!
Imagine, feeding on babes!
Oh well, different folks, different strokes.
Just the same, he is my friend; he is my familiar, Boris is, and I think I'll let him live.
To roam and feast on his cockroach critters, and any other little beasties and vermin which may come to call--uninvited.
What a guy that Boris is--what a guy!
Sitting on half-sunken rocks, he runs a tree branch through his locks:
"How I wish I had a brush, to make my shaggy mane look lush.
Once I had a spiney comb, made from the backbone of a gnome.
But I am rough, and it was brittle, shattering to pieces little.
So now this ramage must make do, until I make something from you!"