I can’t help but wonder, about the blunder, of building a one room log cabin,
Where man and wife, lived a private life, ‘til kids became real, not imagined
With no partitions, or new additions, you’d think their sex life would run ashore.
But they both knew, how to make it through, by inventing a thing called the chore.
As each kid did sprout, pa had to go out, and think up a new job for the tot.
He soon realized, that for his farm’s size, there were more tots then jobs to be got.
And the matriarch, made the remark, that inside we plum ran out of space.
So they tried to rid, their house of kids, as fast as were made in the first place.
At last the last lad, made a nice lass glad, got married and had a grand party,
But pa had ma’s hind, right on his mind; they arrived at the party, tardy.
Well all went ok, until the sad day, when the old man’s life ran out of time.
And then poor ma, lost her chutzpah, plus the cabin exceeded its prime.
So ma did call, her last son Paul, asked if he knew what she should do then,
He said oh dear, I just moved here, and that we don’t even have a den.
But son relents, and acts the gent, there is space in one nook of our room.
If you feed cows, and all the sows, cause heck ma, I’ve got a new bride groom.