The Shed
The Shed.
The door creaks open and refracted light creeps in,
A place filled with creation, even in the bin.
Smells of shaven eucalypt and mountain ash fill up all the senses.
Planes, saws and a miriad of tools are propped atop the benches.
Unrecognisable shapes sit in the vice await to become a toy
carefully crafted and lovingly made, designed to bring some joy.
The untrained eye would gaze upon and think the place a mess.
The master doesn't mind, of opinion he could care but less.
Tibs and tobs are strewn about, awaiting to be mended.
The master smiles, he'll do them soon, the cook has been offended.
In the shed, no relevance exists of space or time,
The hours are wiled away with glue, nails and timber pine.
When did it occur that this place has been destroyed?
So called progressive people, their own ideas employed.
Not termed a shed no more, but now a man cave.
A neandertholic term made up by some poor knave.
Hand tools replaced by couches and television screens.
Electronic game and pizza ovens instead of oragon beams.
The drill press has been removed, it once was hallowed ground.
An espresso machine now in its place, it really does astound.
The rally cry goes out to all you men and boys.
Toss out the things that don't belong and bring back wooden toys.
Don't make it something that its not, its just a simple shed.
Not a memory of times gone by the shed will not be dead.
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