In the heart of the dusk, where shadows play, we gather ‘round in this rustic way, In a shed worn thin by the years' embrace, Where our laughter rings in this humble space.

The wood fire stove burns its cozy tune, with crackling warmth under the moon, While the scent of oil and rusted tools, Mingles with these merry fools.

Beer and rum, our old friends dear, Flow freely now, dispelling fears, each sip a promise, each gulp a cheer, For the tales we spin and the lies we smear.

Broken lawn chairs, their comfort gone, are our thrones this evening, as night draws on, we sit in circles, both young and old, Sharing stories in this tale-spun fold.

The BBQ fish, kissed by flame’s embrace, waft smoky tendrils, a savoury trace, And the moose meat sizzling, a feast so grand, Is passed ‘round with a jovial hand.

The neighbours drift in with smiles so wide, joining our revelry, the warmest tide, this shed, our refuge, a world of its own, where bonds are forged, and seeds are sown.

Laughter dances in the firelight’s glow, Echoes of joy in a world we know, with beer and rum, and tales that twist, in this simple shed where we all coexist.

Gone where the hours drift and the stories blend, in this cherished place with a timeless bend, where friendships are forged, and where hearts become free, In the warmth of this shed, where we’re meant to be.

M. S Chandler