Home done
Johnclarestokes
It pains me beyond imaging
The lazed neglect of the old places
The o woe excuse we haven’t the money
Suppose soon it’ll be a falling
When in the stupor of fiddling
You could at least do a little trimming
Pick up the years of collected trash
It’s the least one could do
But it’s too much the chore
To you anyhow but an ole eye sore
No, only this meddling passerby laments
For he once stood a boy upon
Such a wonderful dog trot
And the boy never forgot
Never had the chance to
Carry the lovely hydrangeas
Into grandma to the table now gone.
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