The Builders
Behold, I built a fowlhouse in my yard!
Two months agone the great work was begun,
And ev'ry eventide I labored hard,
What time my daily office grind was done.
'Tis to my industry a monument,
The fowls, my wife and I are well content.
Indeed, I built a fowlhouse. Gods forbid
Although I made it, floor and roof and wall
That I should boast about this thing I did.
I mention it most modestly withal.
Just these two hands, this brain were all I had.
I built it on my own, and I am glad.
And, as I toiled at eve, my wife would come,
The candle, nails and divers tools to hold;
And when I swore because I hit my thumb
She did not hang the contract up to scold,
Nor move a vote of censure, and maintain
The thing should be pulled down and built again.
She is my helpmate, both in name and deed;
Nor does she deem it policy to nag.
And when she saw my wounded finger bleed
She bound it up, most tenderly, with rag.
Thus, for one end, did both of us conspire
To have a fowlhouse was our joint desire.
And, when I went about my work in town,
No secret vision filled my day with dread
That she would pull the whole contraption down
And start a building of her own instead.
I knew, indeed, she would take care to leave
Unharmed my handiwork of yester-eve.
You'll note - if you're at all intelligent
Our system was simplicity itself:
We wanted something, that was evident,
To wit, a fowlhouse, perches, and a shelf
For nests. I got some timber, tools and nails,
And set to work. This method seldom fails.
And when I'd done, and saw it stand complete,
With triumph was I most absurdly filled.
A tiny thing, enclosing ten square feet,
That any deft suburbanite might build
Yet was my soul with satisfaction seized;
And, on the whole, I think the fowls were pleased.
Now that my hens are well and snugly housed,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Added by Poetry Lover
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