There’s a little house,

Not too far out of town,

Where I’ll go when I 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 in 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 2017


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