Come home
  You put me on the shelf
    You roam
      While I sit by myself.

Sea foam
  Takes you so far away
    My tome
      Requires you to stay.

A gnome
  Said you still think of me
    In chrome
      You plate our memory.

That Brougham
  They sent you for to sup
    In Rome
      Was meant to pick us up.

In loam
  I plant our destiny
    A dome
      I build to set us free.
© 2004 by Michael J. Farrand

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