If this is how it is done

I think Palmerston is in my room
He is wondering where all Victoria's ladies have gone
His fingers twitch
He doesn't care whose room this is

Without turning on the light
he finds a chair, and claws for a book

It's one of my notebooks

He strikes a match and squints at the cover,
then he opens it and slips in -
"I thought the opium trade had ended!
But these tight whirls, this cool ink,
these glamorous pages - the devil,
English is a language again,
Great Britain has found a cheap hotel!
The printed presses can be stopped,
The vote cancelled, women can by happy,
The rats come out, the lamps snuffed,
The wind may gather up its coat."

The match closes its one quick eye
He nods off

I won't ask him to leave
I really need the company