Rocks and stones and twigs and sticks,
In front of a house that's made of bricks.
A house that stands so firm and tall,
While the leaves wither away in fall.
I look up to see the branches sway,
Little birds there, are flying away.
I climb up the tree to find their nest,
To me though, I know what is best.
In history we have lived there,
And history might just repeat.
But for now I am content,
Living in concrete.
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