The landlord said "Get out."

The landlord said "Get out. You never pay rent anymore."
So I got out.
I went to live with my aunt, until she said
"Get out. You leave dirty dishes in the sink."
So I got out.
I went to live with a friend in his basement apartment.
But things came out of the woodwork and took him away.
Then his mother upstairs said "Get out. You bring bad luck."
So I got out.
I lived in my car, until a cop said "You can't do that. Get out
and get a job or something."
So I got out.
But I couldn't find a job. Or a place to live.
And then I was hungry.
So I ate berries on a bush in a park.
The berries gave me super powers,
which I used to build small houses for people
just like me.
Each house had a front porch and a shade tree.
Inside were rag rugs on the floor, made by the Amish.
Wallpaper that could smell like cinnamon or vanilla,
depending on your mood.
In the bathroom the towels were fluffy and never damp.
The kitchen featured a wooden bowl that remained full
of fresh grapes, figs, bananas, oranges, and apples,
no matter how many you ate.
There was an endless supply of paper towels, 
with interesting facts printed on them.
Like:  "Augusta is the capital of Maine."
The refrigerator was always stocked with Swiss cheese
and hard boiled eggs.
And the beds felt like a day in early spring when you're in love
for the first time.
I built hundreds of these small houses all over the world
and gave them away to displaced families, widows, and orphans.
My super powers made certain no government or private 
organization
could ever take their homes away from them.
And their tap water tasted like Hawaiin Punch forevermore.