Child, I have been around for a long time.
Long enough to comprehend the importance of home.
As the bells in my heart chime,
I remember the place where I was born.
East or west, that place is best.
Child, most people escape that place,
In ignorant belief that it drags them behind.
A young man who thinks that in town he will own a palace,
The lady whose money hunger has turned her blind,
They all forget that home is best.
Child, I have met the ladies and had fun,
Black, brown, white, they were all mine.
My money weighed a tonne.
Every girl I took out to wine and dine,
And deep inside, I buried the memory of home.
Child, I was a baseless tree.
Rootless, a man with no home.
I thought that I was finally free.
But that freedom pricked like a thorn.
I lacked destination, for I forgot where I came from.
Child, my old mother worried about me.
She sent people to look for me in the big city.
But her envoys heard no news about me.
Still they searched with tenacity,
And failed, for I now lurked in a pit of doom.
Child, I will remind you stupid children of today,
Write this down in indelible ink lest you forget,
Whether your mother is haggard, or your house made of clay,
Even if being home stings like a hornet,
It is home and you will have no other.
Child, one day all my money was gone.
My once deep pockets went shallow.
I was lonely, hungry and cold that July morn,
And expectedly, the girls left me in my gallows,
For my ignorance for home was seeking vengeance.
Child, I called on my so called friends.
They laughed to my face.
The girls moved on to those with financial threads,
And the wrath of my family I had to face.
But home being home bathed me in welcome.
Child, east or west home will forever be best.
At home there is warmth at all times.
From a distance the church bell chimes,
Reminding you to thank God at all times,
For the wonderful gift of home.