In Winters' house the chaos grows
amidst the boxes in tumultuous rows
That fill our space; and in the hall
the kids are banging on the wall
Scarce noticed by the cats below.
We are the moving; scarce weeks ago
We had power, and heat, and water's flow.
But now we shiver on rainy nights
In Winters' House.

Take comfort in these things, you know:
That though we're running to and fro
Like chickens unaware they've died,
If you listen close as it rains outside,
You might hear from us still, though chaos grows
In Winters' House.

(It's safest, if one is going to plagiarize, to choose an author that has been dead for nearly a century.)