Home is a bit of Heaven,
Where children can laugh and play,
Where men can return to rest
At the end of a long tired day.
Where mothers anxiously wait
To quiet the anguish calls,
Where pretense looses all glamour
As the cloak of formality falls.
Like mushrooms growing in woodlands
Houses spring up over city and lea,
Oh! would that every house was a home
In this beautiful land of the free!