An empty shell crumbles to dust, under a ghastly moon. What remains is barely there, a shadow of a cocoon...

Built to be a fortress but washed away at the end of the day

Red houses are red, White houses are white, But I'm not named after the color of my exterior. In fact, I don't have a color of my own.

In puddle parades, these rubbery guardians march, keeping toes dry beneath the darkest clouds' tears.

It has the house surrounded And very well grounded Some made with sod, some from seed. All need time taken to weed.