The speaker, addressing "you," recalls a young couple who moved into his home after a friend recommended them. At first it sounds like simple generosity: they were broke, and there was room. But the details pile up. The guitar plays all night, the child wakes crying, the woman alters a skirt that seems to have belonged to a previous lodger and flatly denies it. When they leave, the closet has been stripped and the library and pictures are gone. Even the Nietzsche, which he half expected to lose, has vanished.
The tone is wry and weary. The speaker feels irritated, sleepless, and a little foolish, and he also seems to take a small, rueful pleasure in guessing right about the theft. His friend's nervous grin and refusal of responsibility add another sting. The ending is bitterly ironic: "enter also in the name of LOVE" sounds like a sour joke about trust and kindness, as if the speaker is asking what his good will was worth. The loose, breathless lines make the whole thing feel like a complaint told after the damage is done.