Shingled House

Shingled house, shingled house,
sitting in the glen,
won’t you open up for me
and let me walk on in?

Surely you can tell that
I’m a very weary man,
I’ve picked these wild grapes today
and stuck ‘em in this can.

My eyes aren’t what they once were
I’m sorry as hell to say,
things tend to get all blurry
now toward the end of day.

Blemishes are blemishes
whether shingles, wood or skin,
and make no other statements
of the quality held within.

So I won’t hold it agin’ you,
If you’ll do the same for me,
will you kindly grant me entrance
in the spirit of amity?

I promise not to bother
any treasures found inside
I won’t snoop in any cabinets
Though I might tarry fireside

And turn a page of structured prose
from bookshelf on your wall
I’ll try to make some sense of it
With no guarantees at all.

Then, hopefully, I’ll end my day
midst human apprehensions
just dreaming of my shingled house
with perfect glen dimensions.

Bob Church©2007