The Cottage

There stands a cottage near the village green. Covered with weathered stone, ‘n roof of thatch. The sweetest picket fence, you’ve ever seen, And a small garden with a berry patch. Covered with ivy all over the walls, Birds nesting in trees, and singing their song. Flowers have a drink when morning dew falls, Content to exist as life moves along. Now the village changes, the world moves in. What used to be quaint, now replaced with ‘new’ Modern-day houses, let progress begin, Forever changing the sweet country view. Why must we tear down everything we see? To let cottages stand, we must agree.