The old shed sits askew on rollicking wavy hills.
Rocked and rolled by time and wind relentless.
It sits yielded, poised, defiant, with a lilt of tilt
To hum, as it rides out its days of torment and stress.
For old of age, an awry lean out of kilter
Endears and protects sheds from being taken down.
When upright cronies with faked, adroit charm and grace,
Look out of place, and just old and decrepit.
To yield, lean and tilt over, is what rough sheds do
When made makeshift, by shoddy farmers,
Just trying to get something up in a hurry.
But time yields lovely looks to old sheds wrinkled awry with tilt.