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Kensington Rhymes: A Fiction and Literaure, Short Story Classic By Compton MacKenzie! AAA+++
Kensington Rhymes: A Fiction and Literaure, Short Story Classic By Compton MacKenzie! AAA+++
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Excerpt:
OUR house is very high and red, The steps are very white, The balcony is full of flowers, The knocker's very bright.
The hall has got a coloured lamp, A rack for father's hat, And pegs for coats: a curious word[A] Is printed on the mat.
The kitchen ticks too loud at night, It is a horrid place; Black-beetles run about the floor At a most dreadful pace.
The cellar is quite black with coal, The cat goes scratching there; People go tramping past above, But nobody knows where.
The dining-room has rosy walls, And silver knives and forks, And when I listen at the door, I hear the popping corks.
The library smells like new boots, It is a woolly room; The housemaid comes at eight o'clock And sweeps it with a broom.
The staircase has a thousand rods That rattle if you kick, And when the twilight makes it blue I rush up very quick.
The landing is a dismal place, The bannisters creak so, The door-knobs twinkle horribly, The gas is always low.
The drawing-room is cold and white, The chairs have crooked legs; Silk ladies rustle in and out While Fido sits and begs.
The bathroom is a trickling room, And always smells of paint, The cupboard's full of medicine For fever, cold or faint.
My bedroom is a brassy room With pictures on the wall: It's rather full of nurse's clothes But then my own are small.
Our house is very high and red, The steps are very white, The balcony is full of flowers, The knocker's very bright.
OUR house is very high and red, The steps are very white, The balcony is full of flowers, The knocker's very bright.
The hall has got a coloured lamp, A rack for father's hat, And pegs for coats: a curious word[A] Is printed on the mat.
The kitchen ticks too loud at night, It is a horrid place; Black-beetles run about the floor At a most dreadful pace.
The cellar is quite black with coal, The cat goes scratching there; People go tramping past above, But nobody knows where.
The dining-room has rosy walls, And silver knives and forks, And when I listen at the door, I hear the popping corks.
The library smells like new boots, It is a woolly room; The housemaid comes at eight o'clock And sweeps it with a broom.
The staircase has a thousand rods That rattle if you kick, And when the twilight makes it blue I rush up very quick.
The landing is a dismal place, The bannisters creak so, The door-knobs twinkle horribly, The gas is always low.
The drawing-room is cold and white, The chairs have crooked legs; Silk ladies rustle in and out While Fido sits and begs.
The bathroom is a trickling room, And always smells of paint, The cupboard's full of medicine For fever, cold or faint.
My bedroom is a brassy room With pictures on the wall: It's rather full of nurse's clothes But then my own are small.
Our house is very high and red, The steps are very white, The balcony is full of flowers, The knocker's very bright.
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