There’s a little house,
Not too far out of town,
Where you’ll go when you leave
this place,
You’ll always find a log
fire burning there,
And a light in the window to
find your way,
When you eventually stumble
over the top of the ridge.
You can sit among friends,
By then you’ll be deserving
of a seat by the warmth,
You’ll have done your bit,
Struggled bravely along the
path,
You’ll have cried your
tears,
And fought your battles,
So come rest a while,
We’ll be waiting.
bobby stevenson 2019
http://www.randomactsstories.blogspot.com/
