at home on the range


i dream of sash windows

i lust after wooden floors

i ache for period features

and stripped pine doors

a country cottage in duck-egg blue

or a victorian townhouse

with a tremendous view

of the sea

or rolling hills

would be such a sight

from my dresser decked out in china

all blue and white

oh to own a pantry would not feel strange

i'd be content cooking stew

at home on the range

i'd adore the blackness

of the doors clickety latches

and i'd light my fire

with a big box of cooks matches

my cat would stretch out

on the windows flowery seat

greedily lapping up the burning logs heat

whilst the flames crackled happily

in their rightful place

the clock would chime

with a smile on its face

there'd be a nick nack

in every cranny and nook

and my cath kidston bag would hang

off its wrought iron hook

in my property of character

with all it's history

of other people's stories

secrets and mysteries

The End

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