The most popular room in the house is the smallest one.

It never fails, though the coast seems clear,
once I’m inside everyone comes here.
“Hurry up in there!” They pound on the door.
“We have to go, can’t wait anymore.
We’re desparately climbing the wall
and the line’s growing on down the hall.”

It never fails, the phone always rings.
Running to answer, trip on my things.
“What were you doing? It rang so long
I thought you were sick . . . something was wrong.”
My friend talks long; I fidget and dance.
I’d say ‘good-bye,’ but she leaves me no chance.

It never fails, when company comes
they catch me with a case of the runs.
At my party there are many no shows.
Guests suddenly gasp, wrinkle their nose
then they graciously jump up to say,
“Okay if we do this another day?”

It never fails
there’s lines down the hall
or somebody calls
else company comes
I come down with runs.

It never fails . . .