Grandpa built his cabin,
Deep in the Ozark hills,
Where beauty of the landscape,
Almost would give one chills.

He built it out of timbers,
Cut off of his own land,
And the effort that it took,
Made calluses on his hands.

It was just a one room cabin,
With loft high overhead,
Where all the kids lay pallets,
That took the place of beds.

Times were hard and life was rough,
As they struggled to survive,
But much hard work and faith they had,
Was what kept them alive.

The chimney now leans slightly,
And the door is all askew,
Still it was home to those before,
An the only home they knew.

Now when the kids drive by there,
The home place proudly stands,
A tribute to those that they loved,
And worn, hard working hands.

© 2002 Loree (Mason) O’Neil


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