Stated simply, there's no place like "'Home'onym."
Do indulge me! I'll demonstrate why:
Sporting floors fashion'd fully from florins
(graft I'd gather'd near Ghent last July),
all its walls are well-wallow'd in walnuts,
while its ceiling's a seal's ink-stain'd skin.
More, adorn'd are its doors with adorable ores.
As you're passing, why don't you drop in...?
'Home'onym: that's where the heart is --
in each stone, in each stair, in each stud.
It's a cross between Tara and TARDIS,
with a mud room enmired in real mud.
Its attic's dramatic; its cellar is stellar.
Its roof...? Truffle-proof. (Would I lie...?)
Again I repeat: it's home and its sweet.
When you're passing, why don't you drop by...?
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