The Miracle at the End of the Tunnel

In a little house at the end of Velvet Street,

Every night the little people walk to the sound of the quietest beat,

In a little house on the end of Bermuda drive,

Here is where the bees have their hive,

In a little house on Orange Road,

Here lives the shiniest toad,

In a little blue square house at the end of Tiffany Avenue surrounded by lots of little trees,

Lives a family with matching tees,

Every night this family follows the same routine with an urgent need,

They clean and then they feed,

In the little houses at the ends of the streets,

Here is where the silent goes to hide in their little retreats.

In all the little houses throughout the world, we are all flowing to the daily chores,

Everyone is worn down to the last piece left of our cores,

The strongest piece that is cracking more each day,

Cracking with a price that is not ours to pay,

In the middle of all the houses sits a tunnel,

Never used just sits like an unused funnel,

The saying goes that at the end of that tunnel is where time is free,

A place where we all have wonderful dreams to be,

Somewhere safe without the greed crushing our bodies with the largest stomping feet of clay,

No longer zombies working for the selfish who play,

We are all young with many days,

Outside in the sun's gentlest rays.

In a little house at the end of the streets where we all belong without fear,

No judgments causing one single tear,

Crime is not a thing of existence in this beautifully shaped oval dome,

Every child has a family with a home,

In the little houses throughout the rest of the street, there are more people with smiles for long periods to stay,

Here we are reunited with a planet of clean air,

Here we are reunited with all people as family sharing our golden chairs.