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Poem

Have you ever tried to sell your house in France?
Have you had the Immobiliers lead you a merry dance
They tell you what your house is worth
And then they promise you the earth
Then disappear from view with ne’er a second glance.

You start to think you’re living in a slum
The phone it never rings, and the viewers never come
You sit at home and wait
For that agent at the gate
But they never show which leaves you rather glum.

And even when they bring somebody round
You have to wait an age to hear the faults that they have found
Like “The kitchen was too dark”
or “we need more room to park”,
or “the central heating made a funny sound”.

Maybe you should try with someone new
When you’re getting pretty desperate it’s the only thing to do
But you find they’re all the same
They soon forget your name
And they never send you anyone to view.

You wonder how they ever make a sale
They’ll always fob you off with a story or a tale
Of how the market’s slow
And no-one wants to know
But they’ll ask for their commission without fail.

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