Home ain't a place that gold can buy or get up
in a minute;
Afore it's home there's got t' be a heap o' livin'
Within the wall there's got t' be some babies
born, and then
Right there ye've got t' bring 'em up t' women
good, an' men;
And gradjerly, as time goes on, ye find ye
With anything they ever used--they're grown
into yer heart;
The old high chairs, the playthings, too, the
little shoes they wore
Ye hoard; an' if ye could ye'd keep the thumb-
marks on the door.
-Selection taken from, "Home" by Edgar A. Guest