Have you ever looked through the looking glass?
And see how birds start to moo?
The quivering swallows freeze in the sun
And trees that start to bloom.

Would you join the puss-on-boots
On stilts with little shoes?
Or waltz with the spinning kangaroo
Upon the fields of blue.

How about a little kettle of tea
Boiled on a slab of ice?
Would you fancy a pebble cake,
Or a flying ostrich pie?

How queer it is, to us who look
through the looking glass
Yet to those on the other end
Our life'll be a farce.
-----------------------------------
I think queer thoughts in the middle of the night
when lamps are said to not burn bright
I fall into rhythm and familiar rhyme
Avoid the heavy and harp on the light.
Alas. I see light.
-----------------------------------
I asked myself with an honest voice.
Ah. And there it is so.
Of which it exists, by just a trickle.
No hint of exasperation, or of slight frustration.
No mischievous deeds hidden in the drawers of the mind.
No hint of any future torrential downpour, no rain to fuel it.
No swinging of a pendulum.
And so shall it be.