This Old Tin Shed
The old tin shed, and all that’s inside,
Sits alone, on the farm that is old,
With bottles and ropes and millions of spiders,
Together in dust, rust and cold,
And the windows of wood, the floor that is growing,
And the roof that’s sort of not there,
Sit in front of the lush path that was tirelessly walked,
By the people who used to care,
About living in the world of make it yourself,
In a place of “make it your own”,
Where life was about building your world,
Out of wood and nails and stone.
Today this old shed, stands withering and broke,
This old shed, it lets out a sigh,
And every season that happily visits this shed,
Helps this shed slowly die.
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