fool not with small houses

His beard was long, clothing wrong, arguments strong, but his life a song

He lived in our yard, studied hard, ate lots of lard, his face a bit marred

He smiled at the sky, refused to ask why, looked friends in the eye, drank dark cherry pie

and when you knocked his door, on his hut near our shore, with your quests to implore, you were right about to score

he’d invite you straight in, a slight kick to your shin, with his apple-toothed grin, his long stories’d begin

and when you left a little bit richer

inside of your mind a slight better picture

glad to have shared with that hobbit a pitcher

and of his goodness to go be a snitcher

the fact of this world that those in large homes

don’t necessity wise know the paths where hope roams

and those with grand lots

with their cars and their yachts

are often quite poorer

than the friends of small means which this world finds a horror

Like what you read? Give Fox Kerry a round of applause.

From a quick cheer to a standing ovation, clap to show how much you enjoyed this story.