A bloke needs a shed,
A place to retreat,
Put up his feet,
Drink his tea,
Store his boat,
Keep his tools,
And only the rules that he needs or wants.
The smell of wood and oil and dust,
Where things are lovingly preserved,
or left to rust,
And all those things that he knows that he’ll need some day
Are carefully placed or just left in the way.
Bits of wood and steel and rope
Saved on a whim or in hope,
Broken panes of glass, carbies, shocks,
Keys without locks,
Half tins of paint, sheets of ply,
Only God knows why.
And she stands there and looks in the door
And sniffs with disgust at the state of the floor,
And he remembers the time that she swore
That he’d not share her bed
Till he’d cleaned out this shed.
He’d uncrossed his legs and pushed back on his chair,
Ran short stubby fingers through light brown hair,
Carefully he chose this well-worn line,
“You know, the stuff in this shed is not only mine.
What about that old bed and these cards and those books,
And your mother’s bloody Christmas presents?
And don’t give me that look!
I need all this stuff,
You haven’t a clue.
What about all the times I’ve found just the right screw?
Now come on, love, you’re in a right bloody mood,
Don’t say things like that, it’s cruel and it’s crude.”
So she stood and she eyed him
As he made one last plea,
“You know that I love you,” but it’s got to be said
That a bloke’s not a bloke
Unless he’s boss of his shed.
Then she smiled and she kissed him
And took him to bed.
And right after that, he cleaned out the shed.
– David Goss
Brisbane, Queensland, Australia.