| |
| I often grieve because my home is not as
nice as others I have seen |
| In fact it's shabbier than most houses I've
been in. |
| But I can't fret or worry |
| Or long for a palace, you see |
| 'Cause I don't live inside the walls - I live
inside of me. |
| |
| Sometimes my home is beautiful and gay, and,
oh, so carefree too |
| Sometimes it's desolate and dull and makes me
feel quite blue |
| I guess it all depends |
| On what my mood might be |
| 'Cause I don't live inside four walls - I live
inside of me. |
| |
| Some days I laugh at poverty and plan good
meals from scraps and bits |
| And other days the thought of cooking anything
just gives me fits |
| So what if there's food for tomorrow |
| To feed eight people or three? |
| I don't live inside these walls -- I live
inside of me. |
| |
| And down inside me where I live I can be just
what I please |
| I can struggle to keep things looking nice or
live my life in ease. |
| Sometimes my home is just a prison |
| Or a haven of rest it can be. |
| But I don't live inside these walls - I live
inside of me. |
