I know all the places that I want my feet to roam

To start with, I bow down at the tall Tree that I call Home

My eyes intoxicated by each knot where I fall short

I think my tree’d endulge me a slow swing and a high fort

I’ll want no fancy curtains and no spark’ling countertops

In this fort all I’d wish for are our books and the treetops

And please, two chairs, two cups and tea in case I receive guests

Then one last thing, a strong table where roaming feet should rest