That old western cabin,

Has been through wear and tear,

Tossed behind the oaks, 

Hidden from the glaire.

It hadn’t seen a soul,

In a long good while,

It’s insides were rotting,

The house was senile.

The house missed the folks,

Who dwelled there long ago,

But none payed a visit,

They’re six feet below. 

The leaves hit the ground,

And the house felt alive,

Ready for his folks,

Who could someday arrive.

Deprived of affection,

The house began to slouch,

It had life left in it,

But no soul to use the couch.

As the winter came along,

The house closed its eyes,

It had nothing left in it,

It falls before it dies.