The Door that Waits
There is a door near that waits,
Here in the United States.
Kept opened with a stopper,
That’s colored like copper,
He is made of brown,
But he carries a frown.
So dreadfully sad,
That he cries just a tad.
It’s like he wants to talk,
While you go for a walk,
Underneath his strong frame,
Everyday just the same.
What would he say,
If that door could just sway?
I bet he would squeak,
Like a bird with a beak.
“What is your name,
Do you know a good game?”
Here in the United States.
Kept opened with a stopper,
That’s colored like copper,
He is made of brown,
But he carries a frown.
So dreadfully sad,
That he cries just a tad.
It’s like he wants to talk,
While you go for a walk,
Underneath his strong frame,
Everyday just the same.
What would he say,
If that door could just sway?
I bet he would squeak,
Like a bird with a beak.
“What is your name,
Do you know a good game?”