This poem does not have a spacious deck for entertaining after a hard day’s reading itself.
It lacks a million dollar view of surrounding majestic mountains, or even filtered sea glimpses.
A poem like this boasts no walk-in wardrobes, parents’ retreats, media rooms, or en suites.
European appliances do not grace the non-existent kitchen in this poorly equipped poem.
Similarly, the bench tops are neither marble, stainless steel, stone-rich, or, indeed, extant.
This poem’s location is not convenient, as there are few shops, schools, or parks nearby.
Public transport does not run within a stone’s throw of this poem’s old, invisible front door.
Although this poem contains three words with the letter ‘x’ in them, it lacks a so-called X Factor.
Speaking of letters, its letterbox is shaped like a transparent snail. That is both lie and joke.
The poem’s garden lacks any sign of birds, toads, water features, trees, grass or space.
The curtains that cover the windows of this poem are all wonky, smoke-coloured Venetians.
A real estate agent has hanged himself using the cords of one of the poem’s most ugly blinds.
One window has a yellowed sheet of newspaper crumpled and pushed into a very large hole.
That improvised plug is made from a page of the real estate section of last week’s local newspaper.
Out of curiosity, you remove the paper, and smooth it out, to see if it reports something interesting.
That is because you do not know, until smoothing it, that it is from the real estate section.
It will not be interesting, but will contain far too many details about a hard poem to market.
Your hopes of finding a bargain are flattened. You leave by that bland, elusive front door.