In my little house I live my good life
With my written down words and my beautiful wife.
As the years trundle by and we fight off the ills
I write it all down and keep taking the pills.
I divide my day neatly into eight-hour thirds
Eight of them sleeping, eight on my words.
The remainder I spend entirely with my wife
For without her great love there would be no good life.
Sometimes a thought comes that just makes me cry
I can’t write it down, even hard as I try.
I write all the words that come out of my fingers
And do it real quick while the memory lingers.
Perhaps if someone reads this long after I’m dead
They won’t delve too deeply inside of my head.
But see that with words, my house and my wife
I was really contented with my little life.