A House Called Lonely (Part 3) The Trilogy Poem by sylvia spencer

Is that the sound of breaking glass, and do I hear
diggers driving over my grass. Now they are pulling
out my door, if they go any further one might fall through
the floor. First the windows then the roof, why do those
buiders have to be so uncooth. Boards ripped from beneeth
my feet then thrown into a skip on the street. Men with crash
helmets coming day after day, why don't they just go away.
Day in, day out it's become a regular routine, I am lost to the
world with only a shell to be seen. I am thinking who owns me
now a property tycoon or will I be a home pretty soon.
No such chanch as the bulldozer moves in and I am tremblin
within. Brick by brick and stone by stone almost everything that
I own. Now I'me down to rubble and dust nothing left but only a
crust. All my world is compleatly abolished and I as a house
totally demolished. In a few months they may build on my land,
lets hope they build a house fine and grand; but if I become part
of a local bypass then I beg you not to drive over my grass.