i refuse to be serenaded.

you stand under my window
singing a tune i can't make out.
are the words written just for me?
i can't tell
with your garbling.
and i stay in the dark,
away from the portal
not caring to be seen by
the phantom wailer
impassioned on the street.
and soon the tormented cries
of your cat-call choruses
backed up by quartets of equal technique
send a searing through my flesh
and unwanted chills down my spine.
in annoyance,
i throw you down a stinking old boot.
i refuse to be serenaded.