A house cannot be built on shifting sand
And yet I've made this with my hands
The signs are there of its poor foundation
It cowers corrupted even as the nations
If only I had built it upon the Rock
It might have endured the curse of the clock
Still I am left here in this mean estate
Fancy and whim still fashion my fate
Woe to the man! Woe to the man
That builds his house on shifting sand
© 2000 Wakefield G Mahon III
Please return me to Poetry Corner