He has a place,
Of quiet grace,
Not near a city.

It's not a shack,
By a railroad track,
But a place that's pretty.

A line of trees,
A flight of bees,
Surround his desert home.

With azure skies,
And butterflies,
Appearing as a dome.

It is a scene,
That's quite serene,
Without a noise to hear.

When coyotes howl,
The dogs will growl,
To let them know they're near.

His little home,
Is not in Nome,
So it is quite warm.

In winter time,
It's in its prime,
Then the snowbirds swarm.