Through the rickety worn out gate.
Open the door that squeals on its hinges,
And enter the hallway of memories long ago.
But please leave the light switch alone,
For the light bulb is running low on energy.
Enter the productive kitchen, who recalls the taste of burnt food,
And witness the table that is like Atlas, bearing the weight of the sunday roast.
The washing machine vibrates the ground like an earthquake as it cleans dirty old clothes,
And don't forget the dish washer, scrubbing away whilst the family watches TV.
Allow me to introduce you to the TV, who wishes for fame in Hollywood,
Then let me draw your attention to smart old phone, who is fluent in many tongues.
The couch could do with some exercise, for it grows fat and pudgy,
And the living room is delighted to be the focus of the family at Christmas.
The treadmill barely used anymore as the owners use the local gym instead.
Up the stairs of wisdom and knowledge, where many people step upon,
Up past the bathroom, where the toilet feels ill after a visit from the old man.
Through the productive child's bedroom, cluttered up disgracefully,
And out into the frosty attic where the bats and mice have parties.
And up through the flimsy roof and onto the hard black roof,
Where the birds can enjoy their martinis as they sunbathe in the sun.