A poem expressing aversion to what is popularly regarded as picturesque
I hate the stuff: it’s only straw
For rooks to rob and rats to gnaw,
It rots in rain, traps airborne seeds,
Turns green with mildew, moss and weeds;
It creaks, it leaks, it sags, it flops,
And hours after storms drips drops;
It harbours lice and mice and mould
And festers as it fades from gold
To something neither rich nor rare
But nondescript like mousy hair;
It reeks of musty, fusty hay
And costs a bomb to trim and lay,
Yet still its image reigns supreme
As every couple’s rural dream.
Not mine! I gladly put a match
To any cottage crowned with thatch!
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