A Real Estate Riff

WBS_xmasAround this time of year, you’ll probably see a number of variations on the popular poem “A Visit from St. Nicholas” by Clement Clarke Moore (often nicknamed, “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas,” thanks to its rhythmic first line). So why not one for real estate? This one came to us from Tim Langham, with Keller Williams Advantage II Realty in Orlando, Fla. Enjoy!

‘Twas a morning of showings, excited they squealed:
“Let’s look at bank-owned, we hear they’re a steal!”
“A wise move” I agreed, a great way to save bread.
But nothing could prepare me for what lay ahead.
I searched with tenacity to find the right home.
Below 100 pre-qual, just throw me a bone.
I enjoy helping people and I do what I can.
But I could feel in my heart, it wasn’t my business plan.

Grassy patches in the yard, and car parts galore.
Webster would define the curb appeal as “eye sore”.
With hope I moved forward, and a keen sense of courage.
To close these clients I’d need the stamina of an orach.
The windows were broken and they let in the air.
We had already arrived, I began to get scared.
I’ve seen some bad ones, and I thought life was over.
This one was unique, it was quite the foreclosure.

The front porch was rotten, you would have needed a bridge.
A wonderful collection of razor blades by the fridge.
A fridge if you call it that, more so a rusty box.
The freezer a new home for the neighborhood hawks.
The living room was distressed, it needed quite some attention.
The listing agent should have been put in detention.
The carpet was rank with stains here and there.
3% toward closing? The deal just wasn’t fair.

“Will they fix up some things, if you talk to the bank?”
“There’s not much hope here.” I said to be frank.
“Is that carpet in the bathroom?” I asked in curiosity.
All the doors had been shut with too much velocity.
“This one’s a keeper.” I said in despair.
The roof, the walls, oh what disrepair.
They thought I was serious, but I was being sarcastic.
The color of the toilet was simply fantastic!

No copper in the AC; you couldn’t cool down the house.
The home was unfit, even if for a mouse.
Spray paint was abundant. It was the opposite of quaint.
The smell was so horrid, it was hard not to faint.
“What offer should we proffer?” They asked for advice.
“With bank-owned it’s wise to always give them full price.”
“That’s absurd” they implored. “With all these exposed wires.”
All the fixes required more tools than just pliers.

The brick was all crooked, what a terrible chimney.
To push them on forward. I couldn’t find it within me.
“A net and some chlorine would fix this green pool!”
To agree with such a statement, would have made me a fool.
As much as I liked them, I didn’t wish to impose.
But there was more to this property than what had been disclosed.
Let me know what you need, I know lots of good vendors.
The address on its own would have frightened the lender.

The time I invested was spent and done over.
Nothing could save it. Call and schedule the ‘dozer.
It was time to proceed to the next place called home.
They wished to hold on. They disagreed with my tone.
“Don’t be discouraged, there is more on the list.”
The drywall had clearly been hit by some fists.
“Make an offer if you wish, don’t fear the appraisal.”
“This property is obviously the neighborhood’s navel.”

The ordeal had ended. ‘Twas about time we left.
Only one showing in, and I needed a rest.
A roof over my head, I just wished to get paid.
Option contract or not, there was too much decay.
They thought it was a gem, simply pure gold.
All I could see was the abundance of mold.
It was harder to sell than walking uphill in snow.
“We’ll talk to our Realtor, and we’ll let you know.”

Meg White

Meg White is the managing editor for REALTOR® Magazine and administrator of the magazine's Weekly Book Scan blog. Contact her at mwhite[at]realtors.org.

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