The House

The House Our house was ancient, mould and cracking plaster Time, dry rot, wear and tear had worn it out Its framework, a Victorian disaster. My father wasn't one to yield or fluster Though old, he repaired gutters, leaking spout He'd turn his hand to trades most couldn't master. But still, down in the founds, the walls grew danker And Age, to him, brought heart disease and gout I'd hear him wheeze, rub aching knees and stagger This house will see me out, you'd hear him mutter Replacing broken tiles, renewing grout Make do & mend, his motto: Fate's forecaster And then death felled him. Skin like alabaster The undertakers' men carried him out Within the month, his clocks began to falter. Sold as a shell, first Rentokil, sandblaster Sparkies tore at its guts, shrubs pruned without The house rose like a phoenix, grand in splendour, And as for his repairs, there is no doubt They kept us cosy his lifetime throughout