Monday, December 10, 2007

A poem

There was a cold woman
Who lived in a house,
She always wore her coat
But the cold still made her grouse.
She turned on the fire
And sat on the floor
Soaking heat from the hearth
Far away from the door.

Do you know that whenever something has to be recycled, I try to hand it to another family member because I so dread opening the door to the garage and feeling the icy blast that hits whomever is throwing something into the recycling bin?  I am very thankful whenever another family member recycles something for me.

1 comment:

MacCárthaigh Family said...

A brother from the Church told me this recently... Fires; they roast your front, freeze your back and heat the sky!