My old house is a joy,
It’s pricing a ploy,
To catch unknowledgeable folks, and foolhardy blokes.
I asked for a Craftsman,
Not an ugly McMansion,
My historical taste, was employed in such haste.
What we thought would be breezy,
You could say easy-peasey,
Has turned into fear, with our budget austere.
Still we brave such a fight,
To restore all this blight,
Like we see on the TV, with prices too cheapy.
We bellow aloud,
With the rest of our crowd,
“Chip and Joanna Gains, must out of their brains!”
Still the paint all is peeling,
My husband is kneeling,
Praying “God won’t you help, such a pitiful whelp.”
We work with the sander,
Employing our candor,
To remove all the paint, with only minor complaint
Reaching close to the goal,
Feeling warmth in my soul,
Soon this house will be finished, and our pride undiminished.
To all who have tackled,
Scraped, sanded, and spackled,
May this Christmas bring rest, and be ever so blessed!