It's My Home

Under this pile of bricks
Is the place were i live alone
Its warm and soft
I have no phone
Just a bed made from an old car's seat
I do have running water
And in summer lots of heat
But in winter not much to eat
I have a lovely view
Of trees and wild birds
Once i even had someone come to stay
But i had to send them away
For i did not like what they had to say
Yet even you walk all over it every day
Then you look at me and by the way
''Its only a bridge,'' you say
But i say, ''Its my home''.