To coda played by lonely whippoorwills,
A tiny cottage dons its dusk-dark cloak
And snuggles into undulating hills,
Its chimney twisting just a curl of smoke
To prove there’s life within these rough-hewn walls.
We open now the gate across the lane
That leads us through the leaves of early fall
Up to a single window’s glowing pane —
A pane through which we cannot help but see
The source of all the bluish light inside,
Beholding in the room a huge TV
And two old folks who seemingly reside
Within this thatched and humble palace,
To watch each night Debbie Doing Dallas
*Artist Thomas Kinkade paints sentimental pictures of old English cottages.