I blame the following on heat stroke. And pain.
(Read in the tone of drained awfulness.)
One hour, two hours, three hours, four –
I really don’t want to do any more.
We scrape and we wash and we prime and we paint.
We dangle from scaffolding until we are faint.
Tibbit is hungry, Hamish is bored.
The house is still green in one corner more.
The garage lurks out back, all peeling and grim.
I think we’ll be painting when the stars go dim.
Twenty thousand dollars seemed a lot to pay.
Maybe, we said, there’s a more economical way?
Scaffolding, scrapers, and gallons of tint –
Up to the soffits and bump outs we went.
Lamentations and griping, match blisters and pain.
If only, I think darkly, we’d have days of rain.
Would we do it all over? When the end is so near?
Oh God we sure would.
Sweat equity wins out when the cost is so high.
We’d do it again, and ask ourselves whyyyyyy???