This Is Not My Beautiful House

or: My Gut, what have I dunn?

Ye Bunka opposite of me,
thy walls of steel concrete.
A little limerick for thee,
a trumpet for thy treat.

Longanimous ye're standing there
and look as if ye'd say
"A Roland for an Oliver -
Git on yer knees and sway!"

The willow tit is looking down
unto the both of us,
ye with thy walls of greyish brown,
me with my hernial truss.