THE moon is not much use to me,
She rises far too late:
I'm fonder of the friendly fire
That crackles in the grate.
But when I wake up in the night
And find the fire asleep,
His ashes make a horrid noise
And mice begin to creep.
And then the moon crawls in between
The curtains and the floor,
And when I turn my face away,
She's crawling round the door.
Oh, then I wish she was the fire,
I like his light the most;
He does not give the furniture
A sort of shaking ghost.
I hide my head beneath the clothes
And shut my eyes up tight,
And then I see queer dancing wheels
And spots of coloured light.
They do not comfort me at all,
But pass the time away
Until I hear the milkman's can
And know that it is day.
I'VE heard it said that the dustman
Is responsible for our sleep,
That he puts a pinch of dust in our eyes
When the stars begin to peep.
If this is true it would quite explain
The horrible dreams that come,
For the dustman looks a rough sort of chap,
And his cart smells awfully rum.