The Shed In My Head

I once belonged to a garden shed it had a small window you could look inward into it. There I sat smoking a funky tobacco and cleaning my fingernails with a small gun metal pocket knife. Occasionally I hum the La Marseillaise I am an exiled Paddy not a Frenchie but I do grow garlic and to this day pine for those large English pickled onion that the limeys eat with their fish and chips and the frogs despise. The shed is small enough to accommodate several cats or one overweight flatulent bulldog. Now I keep no cats, and the dog is buried in another part of that faraway garden. I once composed poems in that very shed, those scribblings are long defunct and debunked. It's quite legal to kill poems when their only purpose is to litter up a small space in your head as if you were a cramped, overstaffed shed.