Fifty Sheds Of Grey
A man has to have some hobbies in life,
Something that’ll
make him leap out of bed,
And, when he arrives at a certain age,
That something
tends to be a grey shed.
It’s funny - they never appeal in anyone’s youth,
When things tend to happen all in a deluge,
But once you’ve been married a few years,
A shed can be a man’s haven, or refuge.
It doesn’t take much – a shed can be quite modest,
A roof, a window, and four wooden walls:
Just somewhere homely to escape to,
Whenever an unwelcome chore calls.
It’s a manly or masculine thing,
Just to get yourself behind a closed door,
To rummage around in the darkness,
And to spread your things out on the floor.
For in this exclusive, men-only club,
You need never ask anyone’s pardon,
Just to disappear down the primrose path,
To your shed, at the end of the garden.
Yes, a shed can be a man’s very own kingdom,
The realm where what he says is what goes:
A place to play with his bits and pieces,
And what he does inside – nobody knows.
And he can make the place quite homely,
Then spread out as much as he dare,
By getting a radio, perhaps, and some carpet,
And, if there’s room, a comfortable chair.
A bottle or two and a few glasses,
And an optic can easily form up a bar.
Then he can get all of his mates round,
And be the gardeners’ idea of a star.
You see it becomes more
than a shelter -
It’s not just for keeping out of the rain -
It’s a sanctuary that’s out of the house,
A place that might keep a man sane.
So, don’t denigrate such constructions,
And pay heed to what I’ve just said,
For a man’s the king of his castle,
When he’s finally alone, in his own shed.
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