09/09/2026
I sat by my stove with a chill in my bones,
Surrounded by wood that was heavy as stones.
The salesman had promised they’d burn like a dream,
But all they are doing is venting out steam.
They hiss like a kettle, they spit like a cat,
I’ve used half a blowtorch—they’re laughing at that!
The glass is pitch black and the lounge is a bog,
I’m freezing to death by a damp, stubborn log.
So learn from my blunder, don't buy from a rogue,
Where shivering in blankets is currently vogue.
To clear out the chill and get rid of the fog,
Get the good stuff that burns, from Angus Logs!
