Behind the lush green carpets,
Of acres of far stretched tea,
Stands an old, forlorn
bungalow,
Locked by a rusty key.
Among the ancient stone walls,
A mystic secret lingers,
Adorned with grubby cobwebs,
Its lonely rooms look gloomy.
It’s full of English furniture,
And long haunted corridors,
It’s equipped with sliding
windows,
Creaking doors and wooden floors.
The rooms are full of English stuff,
And a grandfather clock which chimes,
Proves that this bungalow,
Was built during the colonial times.
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