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.
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