A little house, a little box,
A little shack of red.
Once lilted in the country side,
Wind touring 'cross the land in sight,
All trees and fields of bread.
Come march of progress, march of time,
Score lines across its face.
With roads and fences, checks and ties,
The white-trimmed scars effacing eyes,
All contest now, a race.
Up sprang boxes, up sprang towns,
All beige and boring taste.
The small red house now crowded in,
It bravely holds it place.
Around its landscape, wooden, brown, in all a waste of space.