YOU think my home is up the street
In that big house with lots of steps,
All worn in places by our feet—
With tracks that look like mine and Jep's.
You think it's where I always eat,
Where I can find my spoon and bowl,
My napkin folded clean and neat,
And milk, and sometimes jelly-roll.
You think it's where I always sleep,
Where I get in my puffy bed,
And fall right in a comfy heap,
Some nights before my prayers are said.
But that's not home—just roof and walls,
A place that anybody buys,
With shiny floors and stairs and halls.—
My home is in my mother's eyes.