The Silver Vagabond   

It’s not a bit imposing and not so very fine,
It’s sort of like a mushroom, this rolling home of mine.
It never cares to settle down; it seems to want to roam,
There is dust from forty-seven states encrusted on its dome.
It’s stood the test of droughts, and floods and winds have lashed in vain,
While Old Jack Frost, in playful mood, has etched each window pane.
It’s stood in modest splendor in semi-tropic places,