Great ugly block of concrete bricks.
Yer driveway strewn with leaves and sticks.
That stupid trailer on the grass,
Still taunting me each time I pass.
Two rows of logs outside the door,
When they are gone we’ll stack two more.
A lopsided sign to welcome youse
Whose entrance in our home we choose.
Come in, come in, excuse the mess.
The house sure isn’t at its best.
Ignore the crumbs, ignore the dust,
Take off your glasses if you must.
Those rain marks shining on the teak?
They’ve been there now five hundred weeks.
The bags and shoes colouring the hall,
The squinty photies on the wall?
The coats all dripping off their hooks,
The hundred million dusty books,
The seagrass coming off the stairs,
The sofas grey with long cat hairs?
And what about the downstairs loo?
The bath above just all leaked through,
And smeared the walls in blue-grey mould.
It’s there for life, so we’ve been told.
The hearth piled up with ashes grey?
Just getting higher every day.
The black burnt spots on floor and chair?
We could have died, you are aware!
The cobwebs dangling in each room?
All idly waiting for my broom
To come along and sweep them aff.
That will be right, I have to laugh.
For none of this I really see.
Our house is perfect as can be.
Why fly to New York, Paris, Rome?
The place I love to be is home!