A picture book was found in my walls during a renovation. As the story goes, I am the house that Jack built.
Now, I don’t want to cast doubt but I am not in the country side. My yard would hardly hold a cow but malt, a cat, a dog, sure, I can see that.
I object on the grounds that a single fellow named Jack could never have built me without some help from someone else, a crew, for certain.
I prefer to think I was not built upon a lie. I want to think it was one of the workers who included the picture book because his name was Jack and he liked the story.
I didn’t know it was there, it never shifted or crumbled, until they pried it loose and opened it in the middle. It gave right away, a broken spine and puffed up pages. It fell into two bits. The pictures were barely faded.
The owner called the newspaper who sent someone out for photos then the local news stations came and did a story. It is so preposterous. If anyone sat for only a moment and thought about it they would realize it was all a lie.
The fact, in my case, remains, that the book is real and it was walled up inside of me.
I think the family would have been better off by finding a bundle of money, gold coins, bonds.
They removed the book and put it on display under plexi-glass at the city library. When people in town drive by, they tell their children that I was the House that Jack Built.
This is the house that Jack built.
This is the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the rat that ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the cat that killed the rat
That ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the dog that worried the cat
That killed the rat that ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the cow with the crumpled horn
That tossed the dog that worried the cat
That killed the rat that ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the maiden all forlorn
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn
That tossed the dog that worried the cat
That killed the rat that ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the man all tattered and torn
That kissed the maiden all forlorn
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn
That tossed the dog that worried the cat
That killed the rat that ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the priest all shaven and shorn
That married the man all tattered and torn
That kissed the maiden all forlorn
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn
That tossed the dog that worried the cat
That killed the rat that ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the cock that crowed in the morn
That waked the priest all shaven and shorn
That married the man all tattered and torn
That kissed the maiden all forlorn
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn
That tossed the dog that worried the cat
That killed the rat that ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the farmer sowing his corn
That kept the cock that crowed in the morn
That waked the priest all shaven and shorn
That married the man all tattered and torn
That kissed the maiden all forlorn
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn
That tossed the dog that worried the cat
That killed the rat that ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the horse and the hound and the horn
That belonged to the farmer sowing his corn
That kept the cock that crowed in the morn
That waked the priest all shaven and shorn
That married the man all tattered and torn
That kissed the maiden all forlorn
That milked the cow with the crumpled horn
That tossed the dog that worried the cat
That killed the rat that ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
What a bunch of mouse crap. But it makes the children smile and sets them off for two or three stanzas.
__I am Not the House that Jack Built