I sit here, in this misshapen home and I wonder,
What stories, what memories lie in each corner?
What families began or ended?
Which windows broke and which baseball broke them?
Which casseroles were fed to the dog?
All these questions are part of this house,
They represent it, it is worn with love and hate,     
It is one with so many, now it is my turn,
The wind may howl and scratch at the door,
There might be mice crawling through the floor,
But I love this house, I will make it my home.
The paintings may stare as the hang in the halls,
There might be chips and marks in the walls,
But I love this house, I will make it my home.
The lights may flicker, the stairs may creak,
There might be pipes and shingles that leak,
But I love this house, I will make it my home.
After all, the fright and fear will make me shake,
But I will find a way to feel safe and sound,
I will love this couch, this bed, and this chair,
I will love every crack and corner, every book and painting.
This house is my home, I am sure of it.