A poem for Anonymous, who has noted my flaws, amongst others. Plenty of flaws in this poem. Knock yourself out, Anon.
As you come up the old set of stares,
And open the scratched wooden daw,
I hope you will notice the walls -
They are used to hold down the flaw.
My flaw - it is made out of bawds,
And if all the flaw bawds weren't there,
You'd fall through the flaw - of this I am Shaw -
Right down to the side of the stare.
Sometimes, under my daw
I'll find several items of male -
All on my flaw, right along with the bawds -
Each one with a different tail.
My windows, they have several pains,
And several Venetians (blind);
But through them, I can sea all the street
And keep out the cold winter wind.
If you come to my house, I'll serve T
Or coughy, and biscuits with chips;
They're in the kitchen, right next to the flower -
And just by the four-set - that drips.
In the corner, I have a small hearter,
A hearter I use to do hearting -
When my finger freezers in cold winter breezes -
And with frost bight my ere lobes are smarting.
The paint on the daw is pealing,
The flaw has many loud creeks.
The liver room is full of old couches
And many old cheep dusty and teaks.
But still, it's my house and I like it,
Along with its flaws and its stares.
So come and have coughy some time
And sit in my old and teak chairs!
Tim, your links stink, you fink!
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